


What Destiny Brings

by Rumaan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Ice Zombies, Lyanna Lives, Romance, Swordfighting, The Battle for the Dawn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 22:11:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1280698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumaan/pseuds/Rumaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before accepting the role as Hand of the King, Ned hears from Lyanna and the destiny of House Stark changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lyanna

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, those of you who follow me on [tumblr](http://rumaan.tumblr.com/) may well already know of this fic by it's tumblr name, Jon-as-a-Wildling crack fic. It was meant to be something short and entertaining, but somewhere between me thinking about it and actually writing Chapter One, it became something much larger that requires considerable thought and writing energy. 
> 
> Writing is at an early stage, so tags will be updated when necessary. I don't foresee it becoming M-rated unless strong swearing surfaces.
> 
> Many thanks to [DNKC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC) who has beta'd this chapter, and also to River in Egypt, who is not part of this fandom, but wiki'd ASOIAF so I could write her very long emails about this fic.

The riders came from Starfall, and Lyanna watched from the crack in her door as the three Kingsguards paled at the news the riders murmured quietly to them. The strong Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, needing to brace himself against the stone wall to keep himself upright. Ser Oswell Whent slumped into the nearest chair and only Ser Arthur Dayne managed to maintain his posture, but his face was white and his eyes strained. It was this that brought her down the stairs and into the main room of this small tower.

“What is it?” she asked, refusing to be kept in the dark over this.

“Nothing, my Lady,” Ser Gerold said quickly, throwing a warning glance at his two men.

“It’s hardly nothing if riders have sought you out.”

The lack of communication with the outside world had pleased Lyanna at first. So keen had she been to escape from the reality of the future mapped out by her lord father that the Tower of Joy, as Rhaegar had dubbed it, had been an oasis of much needed peace and solitude. 

But then Ser Arthur had been joined by Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell and the whispers had started. Lyanna had awoken more than once to find Rhaegar no longer next to her and quiet murmurs coming from down the spiral stairs. 

At first, she had been content to roll back over and sleep, sure that if it was something important Rhaegar would tell her, but whilst the Prince continued to behave as normal, the worried, searching looks she would catch Ser Arthur throwing her started to make her anxious, and she had sought reassurance from Rhaegar. Her family had received a raven, yes? Her father knew she was well? Rhaegar had nodded abstractly at her and smiled, but it had no longer quelled the disquiet that sat in the pit of her stomach.

Then Rhaegar had left, and they had heard nothing for moons now. 

He had ridden out, throwing her a casual kiss as he had disappeared from this wilderness back into civilisation. And then nothing. Indeterminable days passed, the only noticeable difference being the change of her body as she missed her moonblood and her stomach swelled slightly. 

Lyanna already knew they were keeping things from her. She heard their whispers when they thought she slept and had pressed her ear to the door, desperate to hear something, but what was happening outside of her tower remained a mystery. 

Before he left, Rhaegar had murmured something about his father and needing to be back in Kings Landing. He had made it sound so normal that she had presumed he would be smoothing the way for her to leave this place and go with him. But if that was the case why were the Kingsguard left here with her so tense? 

“She needs to know,” Ser Arthur said.

“Our orders were to say nothing,” Ser Gerold countered.

“Orders?” Lyanna asked, interjecting. “What orders?”

Throwing a warning glance at his knights, Ser Gerold strode over to her, taking her hand in his in a fatherly gesture. “Prince Rhaegar did not want you to worry, my Lady.”

_Was it her fate in life to be treated like a fragile flower by men?_ she thought, frustrated.

“I know _something_ is happening,” Lyanna said acerbically. “So I’m hardly going to be serene and calm if you don’t tell me.”

“Lady Lyanna, I am really sorry but I am not able to go against the Prince’s wishes.”

Barely suppressing the desire to stamp her foot and scream that she demanded to know, Lyanna settled for issuing a threat. “Prince Rhaegar will hear about this when he returns, and I will be sure to express just how displeased I am.”

It was the kind of threat that would have made Brandon laugh and ruffle her hair, but the effect on the three knights of the Kingsguard was unexpected. Ser Gerold looked gravely back at her, an expression in his eye she could not read. Ser Oswell looked down at his feet and cleared his throat, but it was Ser Arthur Dayne who set her heart pounding in panic. He, the best of Rhaegar’s friends, had been with them since the very beginning. Had been there when she had stolen out of Winterfell to meet Rhaegar in the Wolfswood. How long ago that now seemed. Tears shone in Ser Arthur’s eyes and Lyanna suddenly knew with absolute certainty that Rhaegar would not be returning.

“He’s not coming back, is he?” she whispered.

“My Lady-” Ser Gerold started to say.

“Don’t ‘my Lady’ me, Lord Commander,” Lyanna snapped. “He’s not coming back and there’s only one reason he would not return – death.”

A tear slid down Ser Arthur’s face then, confirming her fears, and the sadness that flooded through her took her by surprise. She was fond of Rhaegar but she had primarily run with him to avoid the fate of being married to Robert Baratheon. She had not been enamoured with her father’s match, and no matter how Ned had tried to put a positive spin on his friend’s character, she had realised the truth the few times she had met him, and knew that she could not be happy as his wife.

Rhaegar’s offer to run had come at the right time, giving her a way out, and she had grabbed at it. Of course, it had helped that the Crown Prince was handsome and cultured. He had listened to her worries and fears and had kept her identity as the Laughing Knight a secret.

But now he was dead. 

Lyanna’s temper snapped. “His orders mean nothing now if he’s dead! So keeping me in the dark is pointless. When exactly were you going to tell me? In five moons time when I give birth to the baby? A year from now? Five years from now? You were going to have to tell me at some point.”

Silence greeted her words, the only noise the harsh panting of her breath. She let the pause extend for a while before speaking once more. “All three of you should be making plans to return to King’s Landing to serve King Aerys, considering there is no royalty left here.”

She saw Ser Oswell’s eyes drop to her stomach and she mentally thanked him for the reminder of the power she had left.

“If you mean to remain here to protect an unborn babe then I demand you start to give me answers, and then we pack. I can still make it back to Winterfell before the babe is born.” 

The three Kingsguard looked at one another and Ser Gerold gave Ser Arthur a brief nod. “Ser Oswell, mayhaps we should take a walk. Make sure everything is as it should be.”

Lyanna kept quiet as the Lord Commander and his knight left the tower, leaving just her and Ser Arthur in the main room. 

“Please sit, Lady Lyanna,” Ser Arthur said. No matter how many times she had told him to call her Lyanna, despite it just being her, Rhaegar and Ser Arthur, he had never complied and had rigidly stuck to the formalities.

She sat and folded her hands primly in her lap, amazed at just how docile she was managing to be despite her rapid heartbeat. If her father could see her now, he would have given her that smile, the special one he reserved just for her when she managed to conform to ladylike behaviour.

“You cannot return to Winterfell,” Ser Arthur said, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

“What do you mean? Are you to take me to King’s Landing?” Lyanna frowned as she asked. Rhaegar had spoken to her at length regarding his father, both here and at Harrenhal. She knew that he had had no plans to take her to the Red Keep until he had put his father into protective custody and taken the Iron Throne for himself. 

Ser Arthur spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty before dropping them again, as if he was unsure of what to do or say. “I am not quite sure how to tell you this, my Lady, but there is war in Westeros, and the North marches under Lord Stark alongside Lord Baratheon, Lord Arryn and Lord Tully against the crown.”

Her head spun wildly for a moment before it settled and she was able to get out a confused question. “Why would my father be in rebellion?”

Violet eyes filled with sorrow looked at her for a brief moment. “Not your father, my Lady, but your brother, Eddard.”

“But…but it cannot be Ned. Ned isn’t a lord. He is not Lord Stark. That is my father, and Brandon is his heir,” Lyanna said in a breathless rush, her voice sounding small and childlike even to her own ears.

“I’m very sorry to have to break this news to you. Prince Rhaegar wanted to spare you, but Lord Stark and Brandon Stark are dead on the orders of the king.”

For a moment, it seemed as if she could not breathe, air trapped in her throat until it was painful. Her pulse throbbed at her temple before she was gasping in huge shuddering gulps of air that burned her throat, her head shaking side-to-side as she tried to come to terms with the news.

Then a mist descended, and her temper erupted, and she was screaming as she threw everything she could get her hands on at Ser Arthur, cursing him and Rhaegar and anyone else who had denied her the news she deserved to know.

\----------

Lyanna was not sure how long had passed before riders once more came to the Tower of Joy. She kept to her room for the majority of her time. Whereas before she had made a concerted effort to get out and talk to the three knights, she now shunned them. She could not look upon them without seeing her father or brother’s face. These men had been left to protect her, and she was under no illusion that they would, but they had been in King’s Landing not that long ago. Had they been present when Mad King Aerys had killed her family? Had they watched in silence?

Ser Arthur was more often than not the one who would bring her food and enquire after her health, asking if she needed anything for herself or the babe, which always brought a bitter smile to her face. Would they have stayed if it were not for the babe? Or would they have left her here whilst they went back to serve the madman they called king? 

Mayhaps she should have hated the babe that grew in her stomach. Rhaegar had been obsessed with his prophecy, determined that the dragon should have three heads, that it was needed for the Prince that was Promised. Without his need for a third child, a second daughter, a Visenya for his Rhaenys and Aegon, he would never have stolen her away from Winterfell, and her family would not have died for it. But she could not. 

Instead, Lyanna hugged her arms tightly around her stomach, determined that a wolf and not a dragon was taking root. She whispered Stark history to her in the dead of the night, told her of the Kings of Winter, of the old gods, and the North. This babe would be a Stark, she promised, a fierce direwolf of the North. She could not birth a dragon, not now, the gods could not be so cruel.

However, the appearance of the riders roused her from her apathy and she cracked open her door as she heard them stamp into the tower. For a brief moment, when she had spotted them on the horizon, her heart had skipped a beat as she squinted into the glare of the hot Dornish sun, trying to see if the banners housed a running direwolf, if Ned had ridden south to bring her home, but her heart sunk as she saw the sword and the falling star of House Dayne. 

Keeping out of sight whilst the riders remained, Lyanna waited impatiently whilst they were watered and fed before disappearing back into the mountains towards the Summer Sea. 

Once more, she found herself descending to ferret out news. It appeared it was further bad news, as the Kingsguard looked as winded as they had on the previous occasion.

“What has happened now?” she asked wearily, not sure she even wanted the answer.

Ser Gerold made no attempt to hide anything from her this time. “King’s Landing has fallen, my Lady. King Aerys slain by our brother, Jaime Lannister.”

Lyanna felt a momentary stab of gratitude towards Jaime Lannister. She remembered him from the tourney of Harrenhal, a beautiful golden boy-knight, who had looked so proud to be given the white cloak of the Kingsguard. Now just a few years later, he had turned kingslayer, and she could not be sad. The monstrous king who had murdered her father and brother was dead at his hands, and for that she would celebrate his existence. 

It wasn’t long before she thought about what this would mean for her. With both King Aerys and Rhaegar dead, that meant a babe was king, with his mother as a powerful Queen Regent, and she had no idea if her presence would be welcomed.

“What does this mean for me? Aegon is king now, but will the Martells welcome me?”

Both Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur remained silent, leaving it up to Ser Oswell to answer. “Prince Aegon, Princess Rhaenys and the Princess Elia were all slain. Robert Baratheon now sits on the throne.”

“Dead,” Lyanna whispered. “But they were children. Aegon nothing but a babe.”

“Tywin Lannister needed them out of the way,” Ser Gerold said bitterly. “You cannot have children from an old regime running around waiting to challenge for the throne once they are grown.”

Lyanna’s heart jumped into her mouth and her hands flew to her stomach, and the three knights followed her movement.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. “They will kill my child.”

“Tywin Lannister would cut her from your womb whilst you still breathe,” Ser Gerold said, getting up so fast that his chair fell backwards, falling loudly onto the stone slabs, but it was his words and not the noise that rang in Lyanna’s ears.

“We need to go,” she said anxiously. “We need to get away from here.”

“And go where, my Lady?” Ser Gerold asked warily, looking for all the world like a man at the end of his rope. A man who could not take any more blows.

“I cannot remain here. My presence will be discovered at some point, and I cannot hope that it will be my brother who finds me.”

“Your brother,” Ser Oswell snorted. “Eddard Stark had Rhaegar’s children laid at his feet. Who is to say he wouldn’t lay your own at Robert’s?”

Lyanna spun to face him, her lips drawn back in fury. “My brother would never hurt me or my kin. If you think he would, then you nothing about the Starks.”

He looked at her in scorn, and she had a glimpse into how she was viewed by him. It had her flinching away for a brief moment before she moved forward, ready to strike the insolent expression from his face. 

She found her way blocked by Ser Arthur. “Stop it!” he ordered, looking at Ser Oswell. “Eddard Stark is an honourable man. My sister says he argued with Robert Baratheon over what happened. But we cannot wait to be discovered, we need to move.”

“And go where?” Ser Oswell asked.

Ser Arthur looked pensive for a moment. “Dragonstone. Queen Rhaella is there with Viserys. We should go there to, bring what is left of the royal family together and protect them.”

“Prince Rhaegar wanted us to remain here. It’s remote and hard to find. We should remain and honour his wishes,” Ser Oswell said.

Lyanna, not one to forget a slight, rounded on him. “Prince Rhaegar is dead. All that remains for me is death. It won’t be long before I am looked for, and we cannot guarantee that it will be Ned who finds me. And if it’s not the Lannisters then what about the Martells? They are much closer and just think what trouble they could ferment if they get their hands on my babe. We need to move.”

Ser Oswell looked as if he was about to make another cutting remark, but Ser Gerold raised a hand. “Ser Arthur’s suggestion has merit. But the Lady Lyanna should not set sail for Dragonstone, but to one of the free cities. Robert Baratheon will move against Dragonstone soon, so it would be prudent to separate the Targaryen heirs for now.”

Lyanna could not help but feel a stab of resentment at how she was only worth this trouble because of what she carried in her womb, but she stifled it, knowing that she was reliant on these knights for now.

“Ser Arthur will go with Lady Lyanna whilst you and I will travel on to Dragonstone, Ser Oswell,” Ser Gerold continued. “Pentos is probably the best city to head for. The Targaryens have friends there. You will have to travel down to Oldtown in disguise, and I suggest you retain that disguise until we join you in Pentos.”

“Braavos,” Lyanna interjected. “I will go to Braavos.” She would go as close as she could get to the North, and when she was able, she would return to Winterfell and to Ned. Her child was not going to be used as a pawn in this game of thrones. It would see them both dead. 

“My Lady,” Ser Gerold said, frowning. “Pentos would be better.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I will go to Braavos, or I stay here.” 

“Lady Lyanna, please leave the plans in our hands,” Ser Arthur said, entreating her with a small smile.

These Southrons knew nothing about Stark stubbornness, but she was more than willing to teach them. “I will only go to Braavos. If you wish to go to Pentos, then be my guest, but _I_ will be boarding a ship to Braavos.”

Lyanna heard Ser Oswell mutter about stubborn wenches under his breath, and she smiled wolfishly. “I am most certainly am, Ser Oswell, so it might be best for you if you remember how much you need _me_ and what I am carrying right now.”

“Braavos it is,” Ser Arthur said dryly. Lyanna thought he was probably used to strong-willed women, having met his sister, Lady Ashara, at Harrenhal.

\----------

After the heat of Dorne, Braavos had been a welcome change for this daughter of the North. She had arrived there exhausted from the journey from the Tower of Joy and heavy with child. She’d spent most of her days confined to the bed, not out of choice, but because of need, whilst Ser Arthur had sallied forth each morning seeking news from the docks and also to find her an experienced woman to help her with her lying in. They had been lucky in the latter, but the former brought nothing but bad news.

Now a year later, as she sat gazing down at the downy head of her babe sleeping in his crib, she smiled. He was perfect. Rhaegar might not have thought so, so set had he been on the idea that any child of their union would be a girl, had to be a girl, a Visenya for his Aegon. 

But the gods had answered one thing for her, as her babe was all Stark with no hint of Targaryen. His hair was the dark brown of her own and his eyes were the grey of the Stark banners. She had named him for her family also. Not Brandon or Rickard or anything that came with too much pain. That grief was raw and festered in her soul, coming to the surface in her darkest moments. 

Ser Arthur argued that her son had been born a Targaryen king in exile but she had named him for a King of Winter, Jon, the king who drove out sea raiders from White Harbour and built the Wolf’s Den. Ser Arthur had turned his mouth down at that name, suggesting instead the name Daeron, which he had called the babe whilst she had been ill with birthing fever. Lyanna had laughed and refused, stating that Starks had ruled the North for eight thousand years, whilst the Targaryens had only managed three hundred and that was mainly because of dragons. That had caused Ser Arthur to frown and look disapproving, but he had not argued, for which Lyanna was grateful. She was too tired for that sort of activity.

Lyanna had been lucky to survive the birth, the midwife had told her, as she had lost a lot of blood. She had drifted in and out of consciousness for half a moon’s turn, but luckily, with the remedies and care available in Braavos, she had recovered and had been grateful that she had insisted on leaving the Tower of Joy behind, sure that she would’ve not have survived there. It had taken many moons, and she had been unable to nurse her son, but she was still here and able to care for the babe on her own.

A thud below made her lift her head from where she was contemplating her son. It heralded the return of Ser Arthur. Usually he took time to remove the dirt from outside before he would hesitantly venture into her room and enquire after her and Jon. Today, however, his feet clattered up the stairs immediately, and he burst into the room.

“Dragonstone has fallen,” he panted. “The royal children are here in Braavos with Ser Willem Darry.”

Lyanna’s heart fell. This was the worst possible news after they had settled so well in the city as a married couple who had fled the bloodshed in Westeros. Ser Arthur had secured a job as a guard in the citadel which paid them enough coin to live satisfactorily. It was not the luxury that she had grown up in, but neither was it the penury that she had seen on the streets of the city. She had enjoyed leaving the burden of being Rhaegar’s runaway bride behind, and she certainly did not want her child to live a life where he was a banner for fallen dreams and hopes. 

“The children? Where is Queen Rhaella? Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell?”

Ser Arthur’s face took on the sad expression she had seen so often since the news of Rhaegar’s death on the banks of the Trident had reached them. “The Queen perished in the child bed, giving birth in the middle of the storm that sunk the Targaryen fleet. Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell died defending Dragonstone and giving Ser Willem a chance to flee with the children. Princess Daenerys is naught but a babe in arms.”

Lyanna looked down at her own sturdy little babe and vowed there and then that she would not join up with his remaining aunt and uncle. She might be their goodsister, but she could give them nothing, and they could do nothing for her or Jon in return.

“No,” she said baldly.

“What?” Ser Arthur asked, confused.

“I know what it is that you want, and I refuse. I will not go to Ser Willem and the children. I will not take Jon there.”

Ser Arthur sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “We cannot remain like this. Jon is the rightful king. It is right that he unites with his family and fights for what is rightfully his.”

Lyanna scoffed. “The Targaryens conquered Westeros with fire and blood, and they have lost Westeros the same way. There is no rightful ruler, only those with the power to take the throne. A babe of barely one year is not going to rally men around him.”

In the two years since Lyanna had left Winterfell, she had lost any remaining girlhood dreams. Once she had loved songs and those who inhabited them, but experience had taught her that life was not a song. She had learnt it the hard way and through the blood of her kin, but she would not fall victim to the same ideals again.

“Westeros is lost to the Targaryens,” she said turning away.

“Where is it you want to go then?” Ser Arthur asked, frustration heavy in his voice.

“Home. To Winterfell.”

“You think you can return back to the North with a Targaryen babe in tow? You know what Robert Baratheon did to the Princess Elia and her children. Do you think he would really spare you and Jon?”

Lyanna was under no illusions where her former betrothed was concerned. She knew that if he caught wind of her survival and that she had Rhaegar’s child, he would drag Jon kicking and screaming from her arms and kill him. 

But Ned. She knew Ned would shelter her and protect his nephew. He would keep her safe, but just her reappearance in Westeros would bring him into conflict with Robert, and she could not put him that position. It would mean war between the two foster brothers because Ned would never give her or Jon up. 

A tear slipped down her cheek that she wiped angrily away. “I know,” she said, defeated.

“We cannot remain here forever, my Lady. At some point news of us will slip out. I have already encountered Stark men at the Arsenal and the Citadel. They ask of news regarding a missing Lady Lyanna Stark, and it will not be long before Robert Barathon sends men for Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys.”

It was the first that Lyanna had heard about any men of her brother’s in Braavos, and the thought that he still searched for her warmed her heart. They had heard news over the past year that he had travelled throughout Westeros looking for her, and it had torn at her heart that she could not send word that she was fine and well. 

However, a plan had been formulating in Lyanna’s mind, ever since she had started to tell Jon stories from the North. Stories she had learnt sitting at Old Nan’s knee and later recreated with Benjen in the Godswood. It was foolhardy, and she would have trouble getting Ser Arthur to agree, but it was the one place where no one would think to look for her. 

Lyanna turned back to face the faithful Kingsguard and said, “I want you to enquire about ships going to Eastwatch-by-Sea.”

“Eastwatch-by-Sea? You want to go to the Wall?” 

“No, I want to go to the land beyond the Wall.”


	2. Eddard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your enthusiastic response to this fic. Your reviews have been great motivation for me to get cracking on the next couple of chapters. 
> 
> A big thanks to DKNC for beta'ing this chapter and lending me her insight into Ned.

Ned walked back to his set of chambers, sober despite the feast, and rubbing a hand wearily over his brow. Tonight he felt as if his namedays had doubled. Robert’s offer sat heavily on his mind. _Offers_ , he thought, not forgetting the king’s desire to betroth Sansa to the crown prince. 

Despite knowing beforehand what Robert had ridden up here to ask of him, Ned found that his mind was still undecided. The greater part of him wanted to refuse and stay in the North. This was where Starks belonged, not down in King’s Landing. But Robert was his foster brother and he hated to deny him his help. 

Ned was also more than aware that Robert was no longer the boy in the Eyrie, but a king, and one not used to hearing no. Would Robert accept a refusal or would there be consequences for Ned and his family?

The toll kingship had wrought on Robert also played on his mind. His friend was a shadow of the man he had last seen on Pyke. Although, if tonight was anything to go by, Robert’s appetites remained. Ned shook his head. He was returning from escorting Robert to his chambers in the Guest House, sagging and stumbling between the steadying arms of two of his Kingsguard. It was a far cry from when they were younger and in the Eyrie, and Ned would escort an inebriated Robert back to his rooms, a guiding hand and a strong arm enough to halt any staggers. 

Sighing heavily as he crossed the over the covered bridge that led from the Armoury to the Great Keep, Ned could not shake the sense of foreboding. It was almost as if he could hear the whispers of his ancestors in the dark corners, pleading with him to remain in Winterfell, in the North. Reminding him that nothing good came of Starks who went south. His lord father and Brandon had gone south and neither had returned alive. 

And Lyanna. The grief that overtook him as he thought of his spirited sister sat heavily in his heart. Lyanna had never returned either and he had no bones to bury for her. 

For years, he had sent men to try and find her, hoping that somehow she might still be alive, that she had escaped Westeros across the Narrow Sea with Ser Arthur Dayne. The Sword of the Morning had also never been found and had been replaced on the Kingsguard a year after Robert ascended the throne. Part of him still clung to hope that she was alive somewhere, but if she was, why hadn’t she returned?

The shadow materialised out from the dark startling Ned, whose hand automatically went to grasp the dagger that lay tucked into his belt. 

“Lord Stark,” came a low voice, and Ned peered into the gloom, recognising one of the singers that had graced the feast this evening as he came closer. The uniformity of his black cloak was broken by red swatches of wool. The lute he had played rested limply in his hand. 

“Yes?” Ned asked sharply.

The man bowed, his action seemingly respectful but there was something in his manner that made Ned feel as if he was being mocked somehow. “I was bid to bring you this,” he said, holding out a rolled-up parchment that was tied with a faded ribbon of blue. 

Ned took it from his outstretched hand and looked at it in confusion. All his correspondence went through Maester Luwin regardless of import, and he glanced back up, keen to question the musician further, only to frown as the man had disappeared, not even the sound of his footsteps echoing on stone. Ned looked out into the courtyard, shrouded in darkness, but he could not see a figure hurrying across the pools of moonlight. 

His finger tapped along the top of the folded letter. Its manner of delivery was too suspicious for Ned to be at ease. No one he knew would ask a travelling musician to deliver him a message. His plans to retire to Cat’s chambers receded and he made his way to his solar instead.

\---------

An hour later, the knock on his solar door echoed through his head and he opened his eyes to Benjen walking in.

“Ned, is everything fine?”

He looked down at the ribbon he was fingering. It was a faded blue and here and there you could pick out remnants of fine embroidery, winter roses interspersed with direwolves. The tic in his jaw jumped as he thought of the last time he had seen it.

“Here,” he said as he flung it across the desk to Benjen.

“What is this?” Benjen asked, picking it up, before he stopped, shock rendering his mouth open before he raised his gaze to Ned’s, confusion in his grey eyes. “Lyanna?”

“There’s more,” Ned said, passing the parchment across and rubbed his temples, enjoying the brief relief it brought him from the headache that was building.

There was a silence in the room for a good few moments. “Mance Rayder was here?” Benjen asked, and Ned’s lips twitched in brief amusement.

“That’s what you got out of the letter?” 

“Of course not,” Benjen said with laugh that quickly turned into a stifled sob. “It all seems too fantastical to believe let alone the fact that Lyanna is alive and was mere miles away from me all this time,” he said, a frown descending onto his brow. “If she’s with Rayder then she would’ve known I was at Castle Black and she didn’t come to me.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons, although what they could be baffle me,” Ned said before he got up and paced to the window. 

The lit candles had turned the pane of glass into a dark mirror and he could see Benjen caressing the ribbon lovingly. His brother had been close to Lyanna, they had been the two left at Winterfell whilst Brandon had been fostered at Barrowton, and he had gone south to the Eyrie with Robert. Ned had never asked his brother why he had decided to join the Night’s Watch after the war. The Stark line had been decimated, and Benjen would’ve received the keep that was to have been Ned’s, but his brother had declined, saying it had always been his plan to take the Black. However, it was the first Ned had heard about it. He had always wondered if it had been because of Lyanna, because he could not stand to be part of a world where his beloved big sister no longer existed.

“She was not kidnapped,” Benjen said, breaking the silence.

Ned looked down to where his hand lay fisted on the window sill, the skin pulled white across his knuckles. “I had my suspicions.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He turned to face his brother whose grim expression matched how he felt. “What good would it have done? Did you honestly think Lyanna was still alive until now? And Robert-” Ned broke off to slump back down in his chair. “Robert needs the fantasy of who he thought Lyanna was.”

A glimmer of distaste ran across Benjen’s face. “He wouldn’t have treated her any better than he does his Lannister Queen.”

Ned remembered Lyanna’s words to him _Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature_. Would Robert have changed if he had married Lyanna? Ned liked to think so, but the doubt remained. 

One thing was certain, Lyanna’s letter could not have come at a more ill-timed moment with Robert and the royal household in attendance at Winterfell, but of course that had given her an opportunity to send it with Mance Rayder. 

“The king wants me to go to King’s Landing to be his Hand,” Ned said.

Benjen looked unsurprised. “And are you?” he asked, bringing his hand down to rest on top of the letter.

“I would have done, most likely, but as Warden in the North, I cannot dismiss Lyanna’s words lightly. I will go to Castle Black with you.”

“So you think she is right?”

“The deserter we caught a moon or so ago mentioned Others, but he was half mad with fear, and I did not think to take him seriously. However, he was the fourth deserter in the last 12 moons. That is unusual, but surely you are in a better position to say than me. Is everything as normal up on the Wall?” Ned asked.

“The Wildlings are on the move. We are not sure where or why and the Lord Commander sent Gared, the deserted you caught, along with Waymar Royce and one other, out on that ranging to try and get answers. We have yet to hear from the other two. We’ve also heard some disturbing reports from Eastwatch-on-Sea, sightings of inexplicable things that have been called Others. The evidence is starting to stack up.”

“Others,” Ned murmured. “Gods, they only exist in Old Nan’s tales.”

Benjen met his eyes. “Do they?”

\---------

Ned wasn’t sure how much later it was when the door to his solar creaked open and his wife stepped through the door.

“This is where you got to,” she said, amusement laced with a little exasperation on her face. “It’s late, my love, come to bed.”

Candlelight danced through her loose hair, turning her tresses into fiery hues. He never ceased to love her hair, and right now he wished to bury his face deep within it, smell the sweet herbs she used to wash it, and forget his problems. Instead, he gestured for her to come and sit by him.

“I have something I need to show you, Cat.”

They had never really discussed Lyanna, not even when they were newly married, or when Ned sent men out to Essos to search for her. Ned had been loath to bring the subject up, it would open too many painful wounds. Cat was to have been Brandon’s wife just as Winterfell was to have been his. This life had not been meant for Ned but he had taken it. However, the decision he had made was going to affect her, too. It was likely Robert would be offended and that would make things difficult for the Lady of Winterfell. 

Catelyn gave him a puzzled look as he held out the parchment to her but she took it and he watched as she read through, her eyes skimming it at first before a frown settled on her face and her eyes went back to the beginning to read through it all over again. “Is this a jape?” she asked, once she had read it a second time.

“It’s truly Lyanna. There are things in there that prove it. She made sure to include information that only Benjen or I could know. She would have known I would doubt its authenticity otherwise. It also came with this,” he said, holding out the ribbon. “It was our lady mother’s. Father gave it to Lyanna when she turned fourteen. She wore it at Harrenhal, the last time I saw her.”

“Why now? Why after all this time?” 

“You saw why. She says the Others are rising.”

Catelyn looked at him in amazement. “You’ve always told me that they are just stories, legends that don’t exist, told by Old Nan to scare children.”

Ned rubbed at the furrow between his eyebrows that was threatening to become permanent. “I know. I still find it hard to believe that they aren’t, but too many things are happening that point to the inexplicable, and Lyanna would not lie to me about this.”

A puzzled noise escaped from Catelyn’s throat, and he remembered just how many times she had awoken from nightmares caused by the stories told to her by Old Nan when she first arrived. How he had laughed her fears away and assured her that Others were only figments of men’s imagination.

“It is said that the Night’s Watch is named as such because it is to guard against the Long Night. The deserter the other day mentioned Others as well.”

Catelyn dropped the letter and framed his face between her hands. “Ned, surely this is fantasy. You have not seen Lyanna for over fifteen years, and if she is living beyond the wall with Wildlings, then she might not be the same girl you knew. And you said yourself that the deserter was half-mad with fear and exhaustion,” she said the words softly, not wanting to wound him, Ned knew. 

“She’s not lost her mind, Cat, her message is too lucid for that. No, she speaks the truth and I must go to Castle Black with Benjen.”

“You can’t!” she cried. “The king!”

“I will refuse him. I am Warden of the North and it is my duty to investigate these rumours.”

Cat got up and paced agitatedly. “You must not refuse Robert, my love. He will not accept it and will grow suspicious of you. Then if he hears Lyanna still lives-” she broke off, not needing to finish.

“Robert knows I would never move against him. I helped win him his throne.”

“And you think he thanks you for that?” she asked darkly. 

Ned drew back, his temper starting to rise. He knew Catelyn meant well but the North was a Stark’s place, not down in King’s Landing, and who else, if not the Starks, would come to the Night’s Watch aid if the Others were returning. “Robert will understand. He knows the North is my duty.”

“And when he hears about Lyanna? You think he will understand then, or will he think you have something to hide? Something that will harm him?”

“We were fostered together, Cat. Closer than brothers,” Ned said, knowing deep in his heart Robert was no longer that boy and Ned could no longer rely on the affection forged in the Vale. The king was surrounded by Lannisters, a house only too willing and able to pit Robert against any other friends to retain their influence.

“And he is king now. A king who wishes to honour you with this position. If you refuse, you may bring harm to us.”

“And how do I go south when I have received word from Lyanna about danger to the North?”

The expression on Catelyn’s face was sceptical, and he knew it was his fault. He had always stressed that the Others were nothing but stories, and now he expected her to support him in turning the king down to go and investigate reports of their return. She had also grown up too far from the Wall to realise it’s import. Her ancestors had still been in Essos when Starks were defeating the Others during the Long Night. The threat might have been forgotten all these thousands of years later, and Ned might have not believed in Others until tonight, but he knew to trust the word of another Stark.

“You place us in danger, Ned, if you do this.”

“Robert will be angry, he may even leave Winterfell in a temper, but he will calm down and our bond will remain strong.”

After all, they had almost come to blows before when the children of Elia had been laid at Robert’s feet and he had approved their murders. Besides, it would be best if Robert was gone from Winterfell and back in the Red Keep by the time he returned from the Wall. Ned had every intention to bring Lyanna home. 

“There is something else you must hear before you decide on this course,” Catelyn said, leaning forward so her mouth rested against Ned’s ear. “Lysa wrote to me, concealed it in a lens from Myr, which was placed on Maester Luwin’s desk. She says the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn.”

Ned whipped his head around sharply, his face resting so close to Catelyn’s that he could see each individual eyelash. “And you believe her.”

“She has no reason to lie and she takes a great risk to tell me. She says the Lannister Queen poisoned him. If you go south, you can investigate and bring Jon’s killers to justice.”

But Ned had reached a very different conclusion, if anything was strengthen his conviction to stay in the North, it was this. “I would do well to stay away.”

“You would let Jon Arryn’s killers escape punishment.”

“You have seen the court, it’s swamped with Lannisters. How am I to find the truth in that pit of vipers? No, I will go north and find the truth in these reports Lyanna sends. Ben agrees.”

Catelyn’s face screwed up in disapproval. “Of course Benjen agrees. He’s a man of the Night’s Watch, and we saw tonight just how seriously the king took his plea for more men to man the Wall.”

“Exactly,” Ned said emphatically. “The south will never heed a call from the Night’s Watch if the claims of Others are true. Not until the Wall is overrun and the Others are crossing the Trident. A Stark built that Wall and House Stark shall defend it.”

“I only hope you will not come to regret this. And what about Sansa?”

“She is too young,” he said. He was not keen to betroth his daughter just yet, and he knew from Robb that Joffrey was arrogant and too cocksure.

“She would be queen and I was not much older when my father betrothed me to Brandon.”

Ned suppressed the pang of guilt that stabbed through him. The thought that Brandon should be standing here, making these decisions, had been in his thoughts more frequently in the past few hours. The letter from Lyanna had made sure of that. And now this.

Catelyn put her hand on his arm. “You need to tread carefully before offending the king by rejecting both offers. Let the betrothal stand. Sansa would do well in the south and she would be queen.”

He saw the sense in his wife’s words, as much as he disliked the idea and the Lannister look of the crown prince. “Fine,” he said. “I will sanction the betrothal but Sansa stays in Winterfell until she is old enough to marry.”

“I would not wish to send her south without family either.”

Nodding his agreement, Ned took the hand she had on his arm in his hand. “Come, my lady,” he said. “Let’s retire.”


	3. Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your response to this fic. I have been greatly motivated by your comments and thoughts on the previous chapters.
> 
> A massive thanks, once more, to DKNC for all her help with this chapter.

The sour looks of the men opening the gate that led into the tunnel under the Wall was not lost on Lyanna, nor the fear when they caught sight of Jon’s direwolf pup. She had warned her son to keep Ghost close just in case. 

The disparaging remarks about Wildlings that were muttered under breaths had her reaching for her shortsword, but Arthur’s hand on the small of her back went some way to calming her temper. Wolf’s blood, her brothers had always said, and Mance had often made joking remarks that Lyanna’s blood ran hotter than that of the Dornishman who stood by her side. 

Her ability to cope with the snide remarks was not helped by her terrible anxiety about this whole action. It had been fifteen years since she had last seen either of her brothers and she could not imagine that either would be impressed that she had been on the other side of the Wall all this time. Part of her had hoped that Benjen would ride out to meet her, but she was yet to catch sight of him.

Lyanna had not realised just how much she had missed her home until Mance had said he was going to slip into Winterfell to set eyes on the King on the Iron Throne. For the first time in a long while, she had longed for the place of her birth. So much so that it had been a physical pain in her chest, causing her to struggle to breathe. 

Mance’s primary reason for going was curiosity and to prove that he could sit in the Great Hall under the Starks’ noses. Lyanna had no illusions when it came to Mance’s vanity, but she had decided to utilise it for some good. There were problems beyond the Wall, things rising that should only exist in the stories she had heard as a child at Old Nan’s knee.

Lyanna had yet to encounter one, but the news filtering in from villages dotted over the Haunted Forest had not been good. The dead were returning with bright blue eyes to murder their loved ones, and people spoke in hushed whispers of icy beings that moved with great speed and wielded their weapons with great skill. The thought of them made Lyanna shiver with fright.

So she had decided to warn Ned, to tell him exactly what was happening. She was not sure what to expect, but she had hopes for help of some kind. She was sure that if the word of the Others came to Ned from her then he was more likely to believe it. Lyanna had found it difficult herself to comprehend that the Others were real and not just a tale to scare young children.

And soon word had gotten to her that the Ned was on his way to Castle Black.

Mance had scoffed when she told him that she was going to head to the Wall and Castle Black. Told her that the Crows would kill her on sight. And if they didn’t, he had been sure that if she did get to see Ned, all he would want was his sister back, and once she was safe behind the walls of Winterfell, Ned would forget all about her words and leave the Free Folk to their fate. 

So, he had continued his plans to unite the various tribes and clans so he could lead them in an attack on the Wall. He was sure that once they were the other side, the magic in the Wall would keep the Others from crossing. 

But Mance had not taken Lyanna’s stubborn nature into consideration. Once more she had been underestimated, just as her father, Robert and Rhaegar had done before. She would not turn her back on the friends she had made beyond the Wall, and even if they hadn’t been friends, she would refuse to leave them to Others. That was a fate no man deserved.

So she had demanded a letter from him to Lord Commander Mormont. An opportunity to get into Castle Black and to see Ned and Benjen without revealing her identity. Mance had given it to her, as a farewell, he had told her. His attitude was shared in the village, and the mistrusting looks she had received over the last few moons had caused to lose her temper on more than one occasion. She was not deserting them for the safety of castle walls. 

Lyanna had assimilated well into the Free Folk, enjoying the freedom it afforded her. Her sword skills were better than most, the Wildlings not having the discipline or men-at-arms to teach true methods, and she had carved a niche for herself as one of Mance’s most outspoken counsellors. 

She had done far better than Arthur, who still struggled with the lack of hierarchy or roles. Lyanna had told him years ago that he could return to Starfall if he wanted. Beyond the Wall was no place for a man of Dorne, who shivered no matter how many furs he tucked around himself. It certainly was not the place for a member of the Kingsguard, mocked as he was, and named Ser Kneeler. But he had borne all this for Jon’s sake, and even if Lyanna disagreed with keeping the commands of a dead prince long forgotten south of the Wall, she appreciated his care of her son.

She turned and looked behind at Jon, who was bringing up the rear. He had not wanted to come, and had argued that he should go with Mance to the Frostfangs, sure that his place was among the Free Folk. He had not wanted to miss out on any fighting or leave his lifelong friends, especially Ygritte. Lyanna had not missed the glances the girl sent her boy. Ygritte would not be averse to Jon stealing her. Only his age had stopped him so far, just slightly too young to have the courage to carry it through. Lyanna tried not to think of how she had been stolen, or the consequences that had arisen from that. She had been not much older than Jon, a child no matter how old she had thought herself. 

Bitter words had been exchanged between mother and child, and it had taken Arthur’s intervention to make sure Jon had come with them. Lyanna still wasn’t sure what he had said to her son, but Jon was here and that was all that mattered.

“Lord Commander Mormont has asked for you to go to his chambers,” the Crow who had guided them under the Wall said. He sniffed once more, giving Lyanna no mistake as to what he thought about the group he was leading. 

Arthur’s hand settled once more on her back, and she bit back a smile, the warm weight helping her to see the amusing side.

\----------

Lord Commander Mormont was a bear of a man who Lyanna remembered from feast days her father would hold in the Great Hall at Winterfell. His intimidating presence had not changed despite his age, and setting eyes on him once more had Lyanna slipping far back into the past.

“Lady Lyanna,” he said, taking the parchment from Mance out of her hands.

“Lord Commander,” she said, falling easily into the courtesies expected of her. “May I present Ser Arthur Dayne, and our child, Jon Snow?”

The Lord Commander eyed her son and his direwolf closely, but said nothing. However, his bushy eyebrows descended when he moved on to Arthur.

“Ser Arthur,” he said, disapproval heavy in his tone. 

Lyanna could see Arthur stiffening at her side. He would resent the unspoken reproof, she knew. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch would certainly judge Arthur’s actions as a dereliction of his duty, but Lyanna was not going to gamble by giving away the true parentage of her son just so the Lord Commander would understand that Arthur had not deserted his post. The Night’s Watch might not take sides, but she did know that not all Crows were honourable, whether Lord Commander Mormont was or not. 

“Lord Commander,” Arthur replied, ice overlying the polite words.

“Are either of my brothers here?” Lyanna asked, keen to break the hostility between the two men.

“Lord Stark and First Ranger Stark are still making their way towards Castle Black. I am afraid that I am going to have to ask you to leave before they get here.”

“Why?” Lyanna asked, sharply.

“Lord Tyrion Lannister is travelling with them. Lord Stark sent a raven to inform me before setting out. He asks that you head straight to Winterfell, where he will meet with you in a few moons time.”

Lyanna’s heart sank at the news. Whilst she understood the precaution of keeping her identity closely guarded, it meant she would not be able to speak with either Ned or Benjen for ages, and all the while, the situation north of the Wall grew grimmer. She had hoped to win them both around to her plan before she brought it before the Lord Commander, knowing that their support would lead credence to her suggestion and make it more likely to be accepted. 

“Has Lord Stark shared with you the reason I have come?” Lyanna asked, keen to gauge his reaction.

The Lord Commander gave a curt nod and she could see the wariness in his eyes. “It is true,” she said. 

“Have you see an Other for yourself?”

“No, but the fear is not to be dismissed easily. The Free Folk are scared, and something is killing whole villages.”

“I do not wish to doubt your words, my lady, but I have learnt never to trust a Wildling. Are you sure these aren’t just tales?”

“My ancestor did not build this Wall to keep Free Folk out. He built it to keep something much scarier on the other side.”

“Eight thousand years can lead to stories being embellished. The Wildlings have ever been a troublesome folk.”

Lyanna could see her son shifting in annoyance to the side of her, Ghost’s tail swishing in agitation, and she willed him to bite his tongue. His inevitable defence of the Free Folk would not help her. Neither would his wolf biting the Lord Commander as it had Orell just a moon past. 

“This is not a normal blood feud, Lord Commander, or a tribe fighting another. Entire villages are disappearing, and people are on the move. Something is hunting the living down.”

“And what would you have me do? The governance of the Wildlings is not my concern.”

“Meet with Mance Rayder-”

“That is out of the question! He is a deserter of the Night’s Watch, and if I catch him he will be hanged as one,” Lord Commander Mormont interrupted.

“Petty rivalries will not help us here. The Long Night is returning, and we need to be prepared. You know the words of my house, and this winter will be no usual one.”

“So what would you have me agree with Rayder?”

“I believe he has set out his terms in that parchment you hold. All I ask is that you keep an open mind to anything he suggests, no matter how much your instinct is to decline.”

The Lord Commander nodded stiffly before he said, “I have arranged for chambers to be prepared for your party tonight, but must ask that you set out for Winterfell tomorrow. The Wall is no place for a woman, Lady Lyanna, and I cannot guarantee my men’s behaviour. I therefore ask that you remain in your chambers for the rest of today. I will have food sent up.”

“What about Arthur and Jon? May they move about?” Lyanna asked, stifling the annoyance at having her own movement restricted.

The Lord Commander looked over both men, dressed in the garb of the Free Folk. “I cannot stop them, but my men may well prove quarrelsome.”

\---------

Later that afternoon, Lyanna was cooped up in the small set of chambers allotted to her, Arthur and Jon. After watching both of them pace the floor for an indeterminable time, Lyanna had sent them out. Neither had wished to leave her, and had only gone when she had accepted Jon’s demand that he leave Ghost behind to protect her.

The knock at the outer door caused her to look away from the window through which she could see only the wall. Ghost stood up protectively at her side, and she called out for the visitor to enter.”

“Mother,” came Jon’s voice, and Ghost subsided, putting his head on his paws and heaving out a huge sigh. “I have the Maester outside. He wishes to meet you.”

Lyanna’s eybrows rose, but she called for Jon and his guest to enter.

The door creaked open, and a tiny, wrinkled man was revealed. He looked bowed under the weight of years, the large Maester chain loose around his neck, his arm held firmly by Jon as he tottered inside. Her son helped him into a chair next to her. He turned towards her direction, and his filmy white eyes fixated unnervingly on her face.

“Mother, may I introduce Maester Aemon. I met him outside in the training yard, and he asked if I would escort him to meet you.”

The name was a Targaryen one, which was not unusual in itself, but it rang something in her memory, and it suddenly came rushing back. Rhaegar had mentioned a great-great-uncle at the Wall with whom he had corresponded. They had discussed the prophecies that had exercised Rhaegar so much. Was it possible the old man was still alive? She could not refuse to see him if he was. She was the last connection to his great-great-nephew.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maester. Jon, would you be kind enough to fetch some refreshment. Take Ghost with you.”

“But Mother-” Jon started to say.

“No, I will be perfectly fine with the Maester here. I’m sure none of the men of the Night’s Watch will bother me with him present.”

“My son,” Maester Aemon said in a soft voice that showed the fragility of his age. “If you go and see my steward, Chett, then he will take you to the kitchen and see that you are given what you require.”

Her son stood and stared for a moment, looking as if he might rebel, before he conceded and clicked his fingers to his wolf. “Come, Ghost,” he said.

“My lady,” Maester Aemon said. “It is an honour to meet you.”

“Likewise. Rhaegar told me many things about you.”

Sorrow came over his face and, for a moment, Lyanna regretted bringing up Rhaegar’s name, but she knew that was the reason the ancient Maester had sought her out.

“Ah, my poor boy. I was so tempted to go to him.”

Lyanna nearly asked him what he meant, but stopped. Her father’s and Brandon’s deaths still haunted her, and she could imagine the same might be said for the ancient Targaryen.

But the Maester seemed to sense her confusion and continued, “I have been tested three times to break my vows and go to the aid my family, and only one time did I come close to doing so.”

He didn’t need to tell her when that time was.

“I am sorry. I did not think our actions would cause such a reaction. I tried to send word to my family that I was fine, but I fear they never received the news.”

He smiled kindly at her. “My child, it could never have been your fault. If my great-nephew had been a wiser king, it would never have come to such a rebellion. And I am afraid I did much to encourage my great-great-nephew in his study of the prophecy.”

The prophecy’s large role in motivating Rhaegar no longer stung. She was not the naïve girl who had fled an unwanted marriage to find she had only been taken to fulfil a prophecy. It had been folly and one that had caused the country to burn. 

The old Maester sighed. “But one cannot change the past. I have seen too many of my family chase dragons and dreams only to come to their ruin,” he said, before smiling and his tone lifting. “But I hear an echo of Rhaegar in your son.”

Lyanna tensed, her heart kick-starting into a rapid rhythm, and it took her a moment to catch enough breath to say her next words. “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

The knowing look on the blind man’s face was disconcerting. “My lady, that child is not Ser Arthur’s. I may be old, but my mind is still sharp, and I can do my sums. The boy tells me he has seen fourteen namedays.”

Fear gripped Lyanna, causing her hands to curl tightly onto the arms of her chair. “Please,” she said breathlessly. “Please, Maester Aemon, share this with no one.”

A soft kindness infused Master Aemon’s face. “Have no fear, child, I do not mean to tell. What good would it do? I know what happened to those sweet babes in King’s Landing, and I have no wish for my last great-great-great nephew to end the same way.”

“Thank you,” Lyanna said, tears spilling from her eyes as relief flooded through her body. 

“You would do well to heed the prophecy,” he said. “You know as well as I that the darkness is rising.”

Lyanna jumped up agitatedly and began to pace. “No. My son has nothing to do with that prophecy. He is not the Prince that was Promised.”

“You cannot know that. Rhaegar was convinced-” he started to say before she interrupted.

“Rhaegar was convinced that Aegon was the Prince that was Promised, and that Jon would be a girl. A Visenya to join his brother and sister. But he was wrong, and Aegon and Rhaenys are dead all because of Rhaegar’s need to fulfil a prophecy he read wrong.”

“Mayhaps Rhaegar foresaw the wrong son, and Jon is the Prince that was Promised.”

“There are two other Targaryens. Why not either of them? Why Jon? Both Viserys and Daenerys are born from the right line.”

“Yes,” Maester Aemon muttered distractedly. “Three Targaryens left, and the dragon must have three heads.”

“Four, if you count yourself,” Lyanna said cynically.

But he was no longer listening to her, instead murmuring under his breath excitedly. Lyanna lost her temper. “Listen to me!” she said sharply. “I will not have Jon caught up in this. He is no dragon, the direwolf that prowls by his side is proof of that.”

“Mum?” came the query from the door, and Lyanna closed her eyes.

“Come in, son,” Maester Aemon said. “Put that tray on the table there and close the door.”

“No,” Lyanna said weakly. “You are not to say anything.”

“What is going on?” Jon asked. “I heard something about me and dragons.”

Lyanna turned to face her son and tried to plaster a fake smile on her face. From his frown, she could tell that she had failed to make it convincing. “It’s nothing, sweetling. Now, are you going to stay with us or return to wherever your father is?”

A sharp intake of breath came from Maester Aemon. “You have not told him?” he asked, and Lyanna could hear the accusation in his voice.

“Told me what?” Jon said, frustrated.

“There is nothing to tell,” she said fiercely. 

“He deserves to know,” the Maester said insistently. 

“It is none of your business.”

“You know what is out there as well as I do,” the old man said stubbornly. “And if he is the Prince that was Promised, he needs to be prepared.”

“That Prince that was what?” Jon asked before he laughed, confused. “I’m not a prince.”

“You are, Jon Snow-” 

But the Maester did not get any further. Lyanna descended on him and grabbed his frail arm in a tight grip. “That is enough!” she ordered. “I will not allow you to tell him.”

“Mother!” Jon said, shocked at her actions. Then he registered the words. “Tell me what? What are you keeping from me?”

Lyanna let go of the Maester and turn to her son. “It is nothing, Jon. You don’t need to worry.”

“If it is nothing then why won’t you tell me?”

“Because there is no need.”

Lyanna watched as Ghost padded towards Jon, his tail swishing the way it did when Jon was irritated or upset. He nosed into Jon’s curled up hand, and Lyanna saw the visible release of breath as Jon flattened his hand and entwined it in his wolf’s fur. 

“If you don’t tell me, I will seek out Maester Aemon when you are asleep and ask him.”

She looked between the old man and her son, the mulish look on both their faces hinting at shared blood, and slumped back into her chair, recognising that she was beaten.

\----------

Arthur found her later that evening, her eyes rimmed red from crying, and a defeated look on face. He dropped his hand to her shoulder in a comforting gesture and squeezed lightly.

“Have you seen him?” she asked, her hand creeping up to cover his.

Arthur nodded. “Luckily, he had enough sense not to confront me in front of the Night’s Watch, but the conversation was not pleasant.”

Lyanna nodded her head. “I thought I was doing the best thing for him and now he hates me.”

Arthur moved round and crouched in front of her, taking both of her hands in his. “You did the right thing.”

“You didn’t think that back in Braavos. You wanted to go to Viserys and Daenerys, and have him brought up with them.”

“I find time and distance has a way of making you see things from a different angle. I know why you took the decision you did, and it has kept Jon safe.”

“Until now,” Lyanna said, stifling a sob. “But now he hates me for lying to him, and I haven’t even faced my brothers yet. What if they cannot forgive me for what I did?”

“Jon will come round. It’s just been a shock finding out that I am not really his father.”

“You are in all but name,” she said, angrily. “Rhaegar rode off before even knowing I was pregnant. It was you who helped us. Made sure Jon was fed and cared for when I couldn’t. Came with me beyond the Wall.”

“He is my king,” Arthur said simply.

It was not what Lyanna wanted to hear. Oh, she knew Arthur would never break his vows, not even on the coldest night when she had heard his teeth chattering, and had wished he would creep under her furs and warm them both. But she had believed that he had come to care for her, and, even if it could not be the way she wanted, that the affection still remained.

She pulled her hands away and looked down at him, a hard glint in her eye. “And that is all it is? After all these years, you’re still just doing your duty as a Kingsguard?”

“Lyanna,” he said with a sigh.

“I’m not asking for anything, Arthur. I know you would never sully your honour, but look me in the eyes and tell me you have remained solely because you believe Jon is your king.”

She could read the conflict on his face as he studied the floor before he straightened his shoulders, and looked at her directly. “I cannot lie,” he said. “I have feelings for you and have done for many a year. But I swore vows to serve the king, own no property, and neither marry nor father sons.”

She smiled softly and raised her hand to cup his jawline. “I know, and I would never ask you to break them.” She laughed lightly. “It’s a never ending source of amusement that the Kingsguard hold all the honour that royalty lacks. If Rhaegar had half your honour, he wouldn’t have done what he did.”

“You judge him harshly.”

“Fair or harsh, it makes no difference. I have come to terms with what my actions caused. I just hope my brothers can.”

“They will forgive you, I am sure.”

“Would you have forgiven Lady Ashara?”

Arthur smiled. “Ashara never asked for forgiveness. She took what she wanted and be damned the consequences.”

The light dimmed in his violet eyes as he thought about his sister, and she reached out to him, burying her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry that you were with me, and not there to help her when she needed you.”

He said nothing, but his hand stroked her long hair, the most intimate touch he would ever allow himself. Lyanna closed her eyes, grateful for what affection he could give her as they sought some small measure of comfort from the pain of the past.


	4. Tyrion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short. I hadn't actually factored in writing a Tyrion PoV, but it seemed right to have a Southron viewpoint in here somewhere. It also means I can visit the southern plotline if I need to at a later date. Although, having said that, Tyrion was an absolute nightmare to write!
> 
> The last section of this chapter owes a heavy debt to the corresponding Tyrion chapter in AGOT.
> 
> My many thanks once more to DKNC for beta'ing this chapter.

Tyrion forgot his aching limbs and the pain that shot down his spine as he reined in his horse and stared in awe at the eight hundred feet of ice that towered in the distance. Despite reading all about it, he had never expected it to be quite so spectacular. In fact, he had half expected Jaime to be right when he had laughed at Tyrion’s plans and asked what was so fascinating about a chunk of ice manned by a bunch of rapists, thieves and uncouth Northmen. 

But Tyrion suspected that even Jaime would be stunned into silence by the sight. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Benjen Stark commented as he reined his horse next to Tyrion’s.

“Somehow bigger than I imagined. I’m looking forward to taking a piss off the top.”

Benjen looked at him in amusement before Eddard Stark rode past, and his brother dropped his reins to catch up.

The way the two Starks kept riding ahead of the train, talking intently about something had not escaped Tyrion’s notice. He had an inkling that it was to do with the reason Lord Stark had refused to oblige his boyhood friend despite the King throwing a massive tantrum that had made Joffrey’s efforts seem tame.

Robert’s rage had been impressive, but Ned Stark had weathered it stoically. He had seemed to Tyrion like a grey rock battered in a storm, impassive and unmoving despite the strength of the waves that had pounded against it. The rest of the royal household had watched in fascination, uncomprehending of just why Eddard Stark would turn such an opportunity down.

There had been no sadness in Lannister circles as Stark’s refusal would surely mean Cersei would get her wish, and Lord Tywin Lannister would be named Hand of the King once more. The Lannister hold at court would become complete, especially since Stannis Baratheon had taken himself back to Dragonstone in a sulk at his brother overlooking him once more in favour of his childhood friend.

In light of Robert’s anger, it had seemed like a good idea to take the opportunity of being in the North to go and see the Wall. Especially as it meant he would not have to ride back down to King’s Landing with a furious Robert, who had not taken his friend’s refusal to become his Hand well.

But Tyrion had not really given much thought to the fact that he would be spending time with Lord Stark. Jaime had always said the northern lord was too sanctimonious for his own good, and Tyrion had to agree with his older brother. Lord Stark had not refused his attendance, but he hadn’t been exactly welcoming, the frozen expression on his face full of disapproval.

His younger brother, Benjen, was not much better. Slightly friendlier, but that was not saying much, considering he had not hidden his disdain at the idea of Tyrion riding to the Wall. 

Tyrion had become even more uncomfortable with his decision to ride up to the Wall once little Bran Stark had fallen from one of the Winterfell towers, and their departure to the Wall had been delayed to see if the boy would awaken. It had not been so bad whilst the Royal party was still there. The hustle and bustle of the castle had gone on as usual. But once the King and his family had ridden south, Tyrion had never felt such an outsider as he had amongst the grieving household. The sad, quiet air of the castle and it’s household had made him feel as if he was intruding.

When they left, the boy had still not awoken, but Benjen Stark had not been able to delay his return to the Wall any longer, and Lord Stark was adamant about accompanying him. Lady Stark’s absence had been conspicuous in the household party that had seen them off. Tyrion had not seen her since Bran had been hurt. 

An icy wind swept over the wasteland they were riding across, causing Tyrion to pull his musty and stinking bear fur closer around his shoulders. He wished he had listened when Jaime had laughed and told him the only thing waiting for him at the Wall was a pair of frozen balls. He may have packed all of his warmest clothes, but they did nothing to keep the cold out this far north. 

He knew Benjen Stark had been mocking him when he had offered Tyrion an old fur, thinking that he would be too proud to accept, but that was one thing a Lannister did not do, turn a gift down, especially one that would save him from freezing.

“Milord?” one of the Lannister guards his brother had assigned to him asked. “We better get moving.”

Tyrion took his eyes off the gleaming Wall to notice that only his guards had remained stationary. The rest of the group had kept moving and a sizeable gap between them and Tyrion was growing. His kicked his horse’s flank and galloped off.

\-------------

The laughter that spread across the room made Tyrion grin. The look Ser Alliser Thorne gave him did not have much effect other to elicit than a mocking salute in return, his crab fork brandished in his hand.

“He won’t forget that,” Lord Commander Mormont said after Thorne stormed his way out of the tower room, but the smile remained on the old man’s face.

“No matter,” Tyrion replied, unconcerned. “I will be back on my way to King’s Landing in a few days’ time.”

“The Kingsroad is perilous this far north.”

Eddard Stark turned his grey eyes onto Tyrion and said, “Some of my men are riding back to Winterfell. If you delay your departure for one more day, Lannister, they can escort you that far.” 

“I would be grateful. Jyck, Merrec and my Lannister name should suffice after that.”

The Lord Commander nodded his agreement but Stark looked away, disapproval writ once more on his face. _At my flippant attitude or the use of my house name?_ Tyrion wondered. 

Later that evening, when everyone else had left, Mormont offered Tyrion a chair by the fire.

“You will speak to the King about the state of the Night’s Watch, won’t you?” the Lord Commander asked, sipping at a cup of mulled spirits so strong that it had brought tears to Tyrion’s eyes.

“I will.”

_Not that it will do any good_ , Tyrion thought. The King was unlikely to listen or care very much about the Night’s Watch. He certainly was unlikely to be in the mood to be generous to any northern institutions now that Ned Stark had let him down. 

“Strange things are happening beyond the Wall, and the Night’s Watch is the weakest it has ever been.”

Tyrion might have been drunk, but he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t realise the Lord Commander was after something. He shrugged non-committedly. “If there is anything I can do, I’d be happy to repay your hospitality.

“There is,” the Lord Commander said bluntly. “Your sister sits next to the King. The Night’s Watch has less than a thousand men. Six hundred in all. We can barely man the wall and only house men in three castles, here at Castle Black, two hundred at the Shadow Tower and even less at Eastwatch-by-Sea. That is not enough to defend the wall.”

“3.3 per mile,” Tyrion said with a yawn.

Mormont didn’t seem to hear him. “I will now need to send men out to see what happened to Ser Wayman Royce. He was a green boy and it was his first ranging, but he insisted it was his right as a knight to lead a party out. I sent two of the Watch’s best men out with him to compensate. None of the men returned and Lord Stark sent me Gared’s head from Winterfell. He’d been on the Wall almost as long as me, and was not a man to desert.”

“Well, you have Lord Stark here now. Surely, he can help you.”

“Well, yes,” Mormont said. “But it would be good if someone close to the King could tell him the problems we have here. Less and less knights and noble borns come to the take the Black any more. I’m left with dungeon dregs and bastards.”

Tyrion remembered Jaime’s scorn towards the Night’s Watch, an opinion that was common in the south, and thought Mormont was fighting a losing battle trying to regain the Watch’s prestige. 

“And then word reaches me that the Wildlings are on the move. Villages are deserted and there are reports of white walkers on the beaches near Eastwatch.”

_Grumpkins and snarks_ , Tyrion thought with a laugh. “And the fisherfolk in Lannisport tell me they see Merlings.”

The Lord Commander shot him a glare. “This is no laughing matter, Lord Tyrion. Something stirs out in the lands beyond the Wall. Something that is coming this way.”

Mormont must have been more affected by the mulled spirits than he let on to tell stories of Others but Tyrion decided to humour him. He had come to respect the Old Bear over the past few weeks.

“I will do my best to aide your cause, Lord Mormont.”

The Lord Commander nodded, an anxious look in his eyes. “I am nearly 70 years old and I worry that I will leave the Night’s Watch in a terrible condition.”

“I am sure your recruiter, Yoren, will return with more men.”

“Aye, rapists and thieves,” Mormont said with a sigh.


	5. Benjen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the Starks and our first proper visit to Beyond the Wall. Many thanks as usual to DKNC for all her help with this chapter.

Benjen rushed up to the Lord Commander’s chambers as soon as he had delivered Tyrion Lannister into the capable hands of Bowen Marsh. Ned was already there, not even waiting to be shown to a chamber before going to speak to Mormont.

The two men were sitting in front of the fire, a horn of ale in hand, discussing the provisions of the Night’s Watch as Lord Mormont’s steward showed him in. Benjen settled into the third chair and the innocuous conversation continued as the steward busied himself, laying out bread, cheese and dried meat on the table. 

As soon as he was dismissed, Benjen moved forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Lyanna?” he asked quickly, his heart beating rapidly in his anxiety to know how she did.

Mormont looked over at him, bread and cheese in his hand. “She was here for one night before leaving for Winterfell the next day. She came with a cover, a letter from Mance Rayder looking to come to an agreement with the Night’s Watch.”

Benjen frowned, knowing how important it was to Ned to keep the information that Lyanna was alive quiet for as long as possible. Robert would be far from amused when he found out, and Ned wanted him back settled in King’s Landing before the news reached him. “How did you cover her travelling to Winterfell with the men if she was masquerading as a Wildling?” he asked.

“We made it look as if she absconded during the night. She left with Dayne before the sun had risen.”

“Dayne?” Benjen asked confused.

His older brother’s grave expression remained calm, but Benjen knew him too well to be fooled. When Ned looked directly at him, the tightness around his eyes revealed his great anxiety. “Ser Arthur Dayne remains with her.”

Benjen felt his eyebrows rise at that. “Aye,” Mormont said. “And their son, a lad of about fourteen. The spit of Lord Stark, here.”

 _A son!_ Benjen thought. It was hard to imagine Lyanna as a mother. The last he had seen of her, they had been riding hell for leather over the moors outside Winterfell in a race. When had made it back through Hunter’s Gate, Lya just in the lead, she had thrown her head back and laughed, teasing him about how she had bested him once more. The boy that he was, he had sulked for the rest of the evening, never realising it would be the last time he would see her.

He had known that she did not wish to marry Robert Baratheon. She had raged at him about their lord father’s decision. She had also told him of the secret correspondence she had with Rhaegar Targaryen. They were sent in coded form so as not rouse either Maester Walys or their lord father’s suspicions. But he hadn’t known of her plans to flee that night. She had considered running off, she had shared that much with him, and it was that guilt that had taken him off to the Wall. He should have warned their father or either Brandon or Ned, but he had felt for Lya, knowing how unhappy Robert would make her.

And now she was a mother.

“A direwolf?!” Benjen heard Ned exclaim and he looked up from the ale he had been studying.

“Yes, just a pup that followed the boy around unnaturally. A true Stark that one,” Lord Mormont said with a laugh. “No Dornishman would be able keep such a beast by his side. They had the sense to keep it in their chambers with Lady Lyanna for the majority of the time.”

Benjen thought back to the five direwolves at Winterfell, pets to Ned’s children, having been found a few moons back. Many within the Stark household felt alarmed at their presence but the children had them under control, even little Rickon managing to train his black beast somewhat albeit with his eldest sister’s help. However, the howls after Bran had fallen…well, they had been unsettling. Almost never ending and mournful. They sent a shiver through him now even though he could no longer hear them. 

Turning his head to face Ned, Benjen could see his brother was unnerved by this news. The finding of the pups had been strange enough, but for Lya’s son to have one as well made it feel like more than a coincidence. The Lord Commander was right. Another direwolf for another Stark, even one with a Dornishman for his father. 

Keen to change the subject from matters that were not easily explained, Benjen said, “We didn’t see any search parties south of the Wall.”

Lord Mormont smiled. “Lady Lyanna has lost none of her intelligence. She shed the Wildling furs a two-day ride just off the Kingsroad, using some of their hair and indiscriminate clumps of flesh and splinters of bone to make it look as if they had been eaten by wolves. Or in particular a direwolf. More than one man here had expressed the opinion that the wolf would turn on them and I made sure I sent out my least able trackers. I also gave them some replacement furs from our stock. No one will miss them until we take inventory in over a year’s time.”

Ned nodded his approval of the plan and added, “We saw no sign of them on the way up, so they must have kept to the back roads.”

“Aye, she meant to do so. Said her boy and that wolf were good trackers and would get them down to Winterfell.”

The tense set of Ned’s shoulders mirrored Benjen’s fears. A teenage boy and a wolf pup – even a direwolf pup – would be little use against an attack from bandits, and the Kingsroad was all but lawless this far north. 

Mormont seemed to pick up on their worries. “Dayne was in good shape and still has that sword of his with him, although he had the sense to keep it wrapped up.”

That was some consolation, but Benjen knew the anxiety would not lessen until a raven from Winterfell confirmed their safe arrival there. 

“And what of the news she brings from beyond the Wall?” Benjen asked, keen to divert his thoughts from the dangers his sister faced on her journey back home.

The Lord Commander sighed and moved over to his desk before returning with a grubby piece of parchment in his hand. “Mance Rayder seeks to bring his Wildlings south of the Wall. I am still unsure if he is being serious or not, but both Lady Lyanna and Dayne assure me he is.”

“Others?” Ned asked.

“Aye. Lady Lyanna told of whole villages disappearing and the dead rising to kill the living. The Wildlings are scared.”

“Not surprising,” Ned muttered. “But we would have a hard task allowing them south of the Wall. Lord Umber would be the first of many to loudly voice his concern. The Umbers have no love of the Wildlings. No one in the North does.”

“And where would they go?” Benjen asked.

Lord Mormont rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been thinking on this for the past sennight and I am no closer to making a decision. To make matters worse, I have still had no word of Royce or Will.”

Ned looked confused, and Benjen added, “The two who were with Gared, the deserter whose head you took.”

“I plan to send a group of men out to find them,” Mormont said.

“I will lead them,” Benjen offered.

“I will come,” Ned said. “I want to see if the reports are true for myself, and the extra men must be needed.”

“Aye, they would be welcome,” Mormont said. “Rayder has said he will send another envoy to me in a moon’s time to see if I’m interested in negotiations. That gives your ranging time to try and gather some information.”

Mormont rubbed his brow and drained the rest of his ale. “But that is not all. Pyke sends me word from Eastwatch. Reports that Others have been spotted across the Bay of Seals by fishermen.”

“A few moons ago, I would have rejected those as mere fantasy,” Ned said with a tired sigh. “I did so with Gared. Thought they were just the mumblings of a madman, but everything is beginning to stack up.”

“The Night’s Watch is not prepared for this fight,” the Lord Commander warned bluntly.

Ned put his hand on Mormont’s shoulder. “This is why I remained in the North despite the King’s anger. You will need House Stark and its bannermen.”

“Winter is coming,” Benjen said with a wry smile. It injected a little humour into the sombre tone.

\---------

Benjen looked over at Ned, who had stopped to gaze around him in awe. Going beyond the Wall for the first time had that effect on you. He remembered well his own mingled excitement and fear on his first ranging when vivid recollections of Old Nan’s stories had done more to freeze his blood than the frigid temperatures.

Years in the Watch and innumerable rangings had put to rest his childhood belief in monsters beyond the Wall, but now he actually sought the subject of Old Nan’s tales. It was as surreal as a missing sister returning after fifteen years. 

In a strange way, he could see Lyanna thriving here. The harshness belied a wild freedom that must have suited his headstrong sibling. She and Brandon both would have done well as Wildlings. Not Ned, though. Ned was a creature of duty, which served to make him a good Lord of Winterfell, despite the worries that his older brother still had over his position.

“It’s beautiful,” Jory Cassel said, reining his horse in beside Ned and Benjen.

“Aye, beautiful and dangerous. Don’t let your men forget that,” Benjen warned.

Benjen skewed around on his horse. The line of men behind them was large, larger than anything he had led before. The Night’s Watch was a fraction of it’s former self and rangings were usually less than ten men, groups often going out in twos or threes. This was forty men--ten from the Night’s Watch and thirty of Ned’s best men. 

They didn’t plan on going far, no more than ten days out from Castle Black, but it was still important they be organised and aware, especially with so many men who had never ventured here before. Benjen had taken the precaution of taking Ser Jaremy Rykker with him, as well as nine of his best Rangers.

“So where are we headed?” Ned asked, looking around at the wall of trees that lay in front of them.

“Most Rangers head first to Craster’s Keep. He’s an unpleasant man but friendly enough with the Night’s Watch. We’ll seek information from him. See what he has to say about Royce’s plans and Lya’s news about villages.”

Ned nodded and the line of men left the shadow of the Wall and moved into the Haunted Forest.

\-----------

Ten days later, Benjen didn’t know much more than when he had left Castle Black. Apart from Craster’s small hold, they had only come across deserted villages with no signs of life but also no sign of looting. Benjen had seen villages after a Wildling fight before, and this organised silence had nothing to do with it. Wildlings were a savage people who would burn and loot and kill without hesitation. No, something else had gone on here.

The silent abandoned homes had an impact on the group. An uneasy atmosphere settling on the men that had them jumping at shadows, causing the horses to startle. Benjen had been pleased to have Ned alongside him. Despite his many years in the Night’s Watch, there was something comforting about the solid, unflappable presence of his older brother, who reacted to the men’s upset nerves by ordering the fires to burn brighter.

Ser Jaremy had muttered about advertising their presence, but Ned had silenced him with a look. There were worse things than Wildling tribes out in this forest. Benjen couldn’t tell you how he knew, but he could feel it. Ned’s increasingly grimmer face had told him that his big brother felt the same way.

They had made the decision to camp where they currently were for the night, before turning back towards Castle Black tomorrow. It seemed pointless to wander further into the wilderness with no leads. They had found no sign of Royce or Will – not a surprise in the vast forest, and both Benjen and Ned were keen to make it back to the Wall. Mance Rayder could be gathering his army anywhere and their supplies were dwindling.

The Lord Commander would be disappointed with lack of information that Benjen was bringing back, but there was nothing he could do about that now. All he did know was there was something foul laying over the land. The Wildlings were a scattered people for the most part, but on a ranging of this length of time, you would still usually come across one or two close to the villages. This time they had not seen another living soul outside of Craster’s Keep.

A shiver ran down Benjen’s back. Somehow he had hoped the rumours of Others, the strange sightings at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the letter from Lyanna would have proved to be nothing more than over active imaginations. 

_But that is a worry for tomorrow_ , he thought as they bedded down for the night.

The strangled scream had Benjen awake and scrabbling for his sword. He never slept properly when out beyond the Wall. The Wildlings had looked to sneak a night-time advantage over him one too many times for him to do more than doze. It was something he had stressed to Ned and the Stark men before they had set out, but he needn’t have had fears on their behalf. The eerie atmosphere of the Haunted Forest had put paid to any real attempts his brother’s men may have had at sleeping. 

Now, it worked in their favour, as the scream had jolted most awake. Those who slumbered on were jostled by their neighbours, and all Benjen could hear was the sound of stirring men. The flickering firelight did nothing to help him get his bearings as he peered out into the pitch black, trying to see something. 

All around him the camp was in a state of anxious activity, as furs were flung off and swords and shields reached for.

“Steady!” he heard Ned call out, and for a brief moment he had a glimpse of his brother, Ice unsheathed and gleaming. 

Then all of a sudden, over the noise of the camp, Benjen could hear a stumbling, shuffling noise. It sounded nothing like any skirmishes he had taken part in before with Wildlings, who were stealthy and silent, using their knowledge of the land beyond the Wall to attack. Another scream sounded, just off to the side of him, and Benjen crouched into a fighting stance, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. 

The first Benjen saw of them was the blue gleam out of the dark followed by the outline of a body. One of Ned’s men slashed at it, cutting an arm off, but that didn’t slow the wight down. Benjen watched in horror as the arm slithered along the ground, heading straight for the Winterfell soldier. 

Then there were more upon them and Benjen didn’t have time to do anything other than strike out with his sword. Nothing he did appeared to stop the wights from coming. He began to aim to slow them down, chopping at their legs and stomachs, calling around for other’s to do the same. Soon the floor was littered with the sickening sight of hacked at limbs moving of their own volition, causing the men to have to kick out every now and again to knock one away.

Benjen had no idea how much time had passed but the sweat was falling into his eyes and his sword arm felt as heavy as lead. All around all he could hear was the sound of metal hitting flesh, and the stench, Gods, the stench of rotting corpses filled air making him retch and his head whirl. 

_Catelyn will never forgive me if I let Ned die out here_ , he thought and an exhausted laugh burst from his lips. As if it would matter because he would be dead, too. Dead without seeing Lya one more time. Or her son. Gods, she was a mother. 

It was at this point their own dead began to rise, and Benjen’s heart sank in horror as he watched one of his brothers get taken down by two of their own men, eyes shining unnatural blue in the dark. He hesitated for a brief moment, tiredness halting his limbs from necessity before he charged forward, a cry on his lips as he hacked at the dead men. 

Cursing as his sword got trapped in heavy furs and boiled leather, Benjen almost wrenched his shoulder out trying to get his weapon free before he gave up in a huff of frustration. He was definitely a dead man if he was not armed, and he looked wildly around for something he could use. His eye alighted on a log that had been dislodged from one of the small campfires and he picked it up, thanking the old Gods for his heavy sealskin gloves. He shoved the burning brand into one of the wights and sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving as it burnt to ashes.

“Fire!” he screamed. “Fire kills them. Grab a torch!”

At first he thought his words had fallen on deaf ears as he rushed to set alight every wight near him, repeating his words, his voice hoarse from the effort, but as astonished men stopped and watched, his words were taken up, and men rushed to grabbed whatever they could find that would burn. 

Soon the camp was dotted with burning figures and the smoke got into Benjen’s eyes, causing them to sting, but he was relieved to see that the tide had turned.

After the remaining wights had been seen off, Benjen set himself to patrolling the perimeter, a torch in hand, whilst the injured were tended to at the centre of the camp. The dead were being piled up to the side, ringed by men with burning brands, ready to set the pyre alight as soon as anyone began to rise. 

“Ben!” his brother called out in an anxious voice.

“Here,” he called back, relief that Ned was fine colouring his tone. 

Ned made his way over, a smile gracing his face as he clapped Benjen on the back. “How many have you lost?” he asked, his face settling into its usual grim lines.

“Three,” Benjen said, shaking his head. “Ser Jaremy took a slash to the thigh, as well.”

“That’s thirteen men altogether then,” Ned said.

“Thank the Gods you were here, Ned! Without your extra men, we would’ve been overrun for sure.”

Ned’s hand tightened on his shoulder for a minute and Benjen felt a surge of gratitude for Lyanna’s letter. Without it, Ned would’ve gone south and this ranging would’ve been doomed. 

“We’ll get the bodies burnt,” Benjen said, with a nod to Jory. “And start back to Castle Black. I plan on being far from here by the time darkness falls tomorrow night.”

“Aye, it should start getting light by the time we’ve finished up here,” Ned said, turning away, obviously keen to get moving.

Benjen watched his brother for a brief moment before starting off on his patrol once more. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before the cold deepened, seeping under his furs, and sending icy fingers down his back. He shivered, confused. There was no reason it should suddenly be so much colder. He swung his torch around in an arc, confused by the anomaly, only to stop short as blue eyes gleamed out at him from the dark. They were different from the eyes in the wights, the blue burning more brightly, with an intelligence behind them that a reanimated dead corpse could not possess. He was frozen still as the shadowy figure came closer to him with none of the shuffling gait that the wights had possessed earlier. Finally, a tall gaunt being was revealed with skin so pale it glimmered in the darkness. A thin sword of ice – real ice – glittered in its hand, and Benjen had only a moment to shout before it was on him. 

Swishing his torch back and forth, Benjen drew his sword and parried the first strike, but his arm shuddered at the contact and his blade splintered as if it were glass. He had no time to stare in shock, barely ducking in time as a second swing was made at him. Swordless, Benjen flung his burning torch into the being only to watch it bounce back and gutter in the snow. The next sword thrust came so rapidly that Benjen stumbled over his feet, landing on his back. Helplessly, he gazed up, certain that he had met his death. 

He thought he had dreamt the cry of Winterfell, a last longing for home and for a sister he would never get to meet once more as he awaited the death blow, but it never came. Instead his foe stood stock still as a smoky grey blade skewered it’s chest, it’s bright blue eyes meeting his own for a moment before it melted into a puddle of ice revealing Ned, panting puffs of mist coming from his mouth.

“Benjen!” he cried, dropping Ice and hauling him up into a bear hug.

“Was that…was that an Other?” Benjen asked breathlessly, stumbling over the words as fear made his voice tremble. 

“I think so,” Ned replied shakily.

“It splintered my sword. My blade was broken just from touching its sword and the fire did nothing. But Ice,” he said, words spilling rapidly from his lips as his battle-heated blood coursed through his body. “Ice killed it.”

Ned bent down, picking the House Stark sword back up. It was taller than all Ned’s children and as wide as a man’s hand. A monster of a sword. For as long as Benjen remembered, every trip he made to Winterfell, he would line Robb up against it as a jape to see if he had outgrown it yet. He had done the same during his last visit, only to laugh as his nephew had pouted as the sword topped him once again. Only just, as Benjen had pointed out to the disappointed boy.

“Valyrian steel,” Benjen said. “It was slain by Valyrian steel. I need to get back to Castle Black to tell this to the Lord Commander and Maester Aemon.”

Ned nodded, his face grimmer than usual as they surveyed the camp. “We’ll get there,” he said. “Might take us longer with the injured men, but we’ll get there.”


	6. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know many of you are chomping at the bit for Lyanna and Ned to meet again. This is coming, but first there has to be some other stuff that happens.
> 
> My thanks, as always, to DKNC for all her help in beta'ing and cheering me on with this story.

Sansa could hear the crying before the door even opened. Robb was trying to soothe Rickon but the impatience was leaking into his voice as the little boy continued to cry hysterically.

She sighed and put the handkerchiefs she was embroidering with Joffrey’s sigil across from hers away and rose to open the door. If this had been another time and another place, she might have laughed at the sight of Rickon clinging so tightly to Robb’s thigh that he had to lift the boy with him every step he took. But Winterfell did not laugh or smile anymore. Not since Bran and fallen and her father had ridden north with uncle Benjen. 

“Sansa!” Robb pleaded as he saw her. “Please can you play with Rickon? I am to go with Vayon Poole to Winter Town to check on the unoccupied buildings and Rickon won’t let go.”  
Smothering her smile, Sansa bent and dislodged Rickon’s fingers from where they clutched around Robb’s leg. “Come now, Rickon. Robb needs to go about his business and you are too young to go with him.”

Her little brother scowled and put his thumb in his mouth. She tried to prise it gently from between his lips but his teeth clamped down so she could not remove it without hurting him. “Remember what Mother said if you continue to suck your thumb, Rickon? She will send to Dorne for some fire peppers and spread them all over your thumb so it burns your mouth. You don’t want Mother to do that, do you?”

“She won’t,” Rickon said, certainty warring with sadness in his tone. “She won’t leave Bran’s side and she smells funny.”

Sansa could say nothing to this as Rickon was right. Their mother would not leave Bran’s side. Not even to bathe. No matter how much she or Robb pleaded with her, or how much trouble Arya could get in, nothing would gain a response from their lady mother. She just waved them away and told them to deal with the problem how they saw fit. She raised her eyes to Robb and she saw the worry she felt etched on her older brother’s face.

“I’ll talk to her when I return from Winter Town,” he said, and she nodded. 

“Shall we go and find Shaggy and take Lady and him to the godswood?” Sansa suggested. She might prefer the Sept with the statues and incense and pretty stained glass, but they could not take the wolves in there, and she knew that nothing appealed to Rickon so much as Shaggydog. 

Her little brother nodded enthusiastically, Sansa held out her hand for Rickon to grasp and clicked for Lady to follow.

\------------

After the midday meal, Sansa checked in on Bran. As usual, her lady mother was there but she did not even raise her eyes from Bran’s face as Sansa entered the room. Sansa wrinkled her nose at the sour smell in the room. _Mother really does need to bathe_ , she thought, upset at how her usually neat and sweet smelling mother looked rumpled and tired and grubby.

Once more, Sansa tried to get her mother to leave, begging her to go and sleep, telling her that there was a bath waiting in her chambers for her. But the most Sansa managed was to get her to eat a small amount. She soon left, unable to spend a large amount of time in her mother’s presence without crying or wanting to scream, and found her way to the Sept.

Sansa could not help but compare her mother’s wrecked appearance to the elegance of Queen Cersei. She sighed as she thought back to the royal court’s visit to Winterfell. She had never known such excitement before and for a brief while had dreamt that she would be returning to King’s Landing with them, especially after her official betrothal to Prince Joffrey had been announced.

But her father had turned down the opportunity to become Hand of the King and he had refused for Sansa to be allowed to go court with Queen Cersei. No matter how much she had begged and cried, both Father and Mother had stood firm, and she had stayed at Winterfell.

_I would have been happy at Court_ , she thought. _All those knights and tourneys and singers._

But instead her parents seemed content to never leave the North, where nothing ever happened. She could not wait to flower and be wedded to her golden prince. He was everything a prince should look like, and she did not care how much Robb derided him or Arya laughed at his hair. Robb was content to remain at Winterfell, and Arya was a spiteful little cat who only wanted to roll around in the mud.

For a horrible moment, as King Robert had raged at her father, she had thought her betrothal would be ended. She had gone to have lunch with Queen Cersei certain that she would be told that another wife for Prince Joffrey would be found. 

But the queen had smiled and complimented Sansa on her beauty, and the anxiety had dissipated. She would still get to go south and marry the prince and become a queen herself. Then she would be at court and could have a singer every day to entertain them.

Sansa smiled as she lost herself in daydreams of how wonderful it would be to wed Prince Joffrey and live far away in King’s Landing, where the sun shone and she would have every form of entertainment available to her.

\---------

The brazier was lit in the ladies’ solar, and her head was bent over one of Bran’s shirts. She was mending a hole and trying not to let the tears drip as she thought of her little brother. He had always been so fearless, making her heart jump as he would shimmy up the trees in the godswood as well as climb the towers of Winterfell as if they were nothing more than a small wall. But along with that fearlessness there was a sweet heart and an unerring ability to see when someone was upset. Many a time when she had gone to bed in tears because of something Arya had done, Bran would climb into her bed, claiming he’d had a bad dream and snuggle up to her.

A tear trickled down her cheek and splashed onto the linen. She wiped it away surreptitiously, not wanting to draw attention to her sadness. 

“I wish Father would come home,” Arya said from the corner she curled up in, pretending to sew but really playing with the wooden knight she snuck in under the skirts Septa Mordane had managed to force her into. 

“Don’t be stupid, Arya. Father only left four nights ago.”

It felt like longer and Sansa already missed her father’s stern but kind face. _Mayhaps Mother would be better if Father remained_ , she thought. But then Mother had refused to leave Bran’s side even for their father. She had not been at the gate to see them off either, which had caused Father to frown. Her absence had been much more conspicuous than when the royal party had left, when Father had at least been there to observe the proper courtesies. Not that the king had cared, his face marred by a heavy scowl. There had been no friendly “Ned” used but instead the formal Lord Stark.

“I know that, Sansa, it doesn’t mean that I don’t wish he was here,” Arya said, kicking at the stool she was meant to be sitting on, rather than the dusty floor. 

“Wishing won’t bring him home. I heard him tell Robb that it would be at least a few moons before he returned.”

Arya muttered something under her breath and Sansa knew it was derogatory about her from the look she received from her little sister.

She was about to point the wooden knight to Septa Mordane when the direwolves started to howl. Both Septa Mordane and Jeyne winced but Sansa started to count the different wolves, starting with Bran’s and ending with Lady. She noticed Arya doing same.

“Close the window please, Arya,” Septa Mordane said, as she did every evening the wolves howled. Arya scowled and for once Sansa felt the same way. The sound of the wolves was comforting for her, and she knew they mourned for Bran. It added to the sad air that lay over Winterfell, but somehow it consoled her, as if the wolves were giving voice to the sadness she was unable to do.

“Robb says it’s good to keep the windows open. That Bran needs to hear the wolves singing,” Arya said sulkily, as she went to the window.

“As none of us are Bran, I am sure that we need not heed Robb’s words,” Septa Mordane replied mildly. 

Sansa watched as Arya leaned far out of the window and had a moment of panic as she feared her sister would fall, too. 

“Arya! Did I not ask you to close that window?” Septa Mordane said, frustration in her voice.

“I think there is someone down there,” Arya said. “Someone who shouldn’t be.”

“Stop being silly, child, and do as I ask.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. It was typical of Arya to try and be special to gain attention. Jeyne nudged her arm and smirked, nodding her head in Arya’s direction. Sansa let out a little giggle in response that had Arya spinning back round, the scowl back in place as she glared at her. 

Septa Mordane opened her mouth to scold Arya once more, but words were drowned out as the dogs began to bark along with the wolves. Sansa’s heart leapt in her chest. The dogs didn’t join in with the direwolves. They were afraid of them, and their father had made all five Stark children promise to never allow their wolves into the kennels, even for a jape. 

Arya turned once more to the window, straining her head out to see. “Fire!” she said in a strangled tone. “There’s a fire in the library tower.”

“Nonsense, child!” Septa Mordane said, gathering her skirts in her hands as she rose to move to the window. But Sansa and Jeyne beat her there, casting their sewing aside, and elbowing Arya out of the way. “She’s right,” Sansa said.

As the words left her mouth, the cry was taken up in the yard and suddenly shadowy figures could be seen dashing about as the flames got higher and illuminated the yard. Sansa saw Robb, a sword strapped to his hip as was often the case now, pointing and directing the men. 

“What’s Bran’s wolf doing?” Arya suddenly asked. 

Sansa’s eyes scanned the courtyard, picking up the outline of the wolves. Grey Wind was by Robb’s side, and she could see Lady in between Shaggydog and Nymeria. But she could not find Bran’s wolf until she saw it directly below them, streaking into the Great Keep. 

“I’m going to see where it is going,” Arya said. 

There was a clatter from behind her, and Sansa whirled around to see that Arya had jumped off the stool she had obviously been standing on to see over their heads, upsetting it so that it rolled to and fro on the floor. 

There was a flash of blue by the door as Arya’s skirt disappeared around the frame. “Arya!” called Septa Mordane, exasperated. “That sister of yours grows wilder and wilder by the-, SANSA!”

For once, Sansa saw the sense in her sister’s actions and didn’t wait to excuse herself from her Septa as she knew was courteous. Instead, she lifted her skirts and ran after Arya, the sound of her name shouted by Septa Mordane echoing behind her. 

_This is what it feels like to be Arya_ , she thought with a little giggle. It was surprisingly freeing, something Sansa needed after the strains of the past eight days. Her father had taken her to one side and told her that she need to be strong for her lady mother and her younger brothers and sister, so Sansa had been trying, although Arya would push her to her limits. 

Sansa could hear Arya’s footsteps pounding the stone floors ahead of her and she followed their direction. As they got closer to the family’s private quarters, Sansa skidded to a halt as she heard a commotion coming from Bran’s room. There was the sound of scuffling, amplified by the stone of the castle. Then her mother screamed and Sansa was running harder than she had ever run. 

Sansa bumped into her sister, who stood stock still in the doorway, and she shifted Arya to the side so she could see into the room. The sight that met Sansa’s eyes made her stomach churn. A gaunt man with limp blond hair lay still on the floor, blood pooling around him from where his throat had been ripped out. Bran’s wolf turned his bright yellow eyes on them, his muzzle stained red by blood. He stood by their mother who sat on the floor, laughter bursting from her throat, as one of her hands curled into the wolf’s fur. 

“Thank you,” Sansa heard her whisper to the wolf, as it bent it’s head and licked at her hand.

It was only then that Sansa noticed her mother’s hands, the deep cuts on them that oozed blood, and her stomach dropped.

“Mother,” she said frantically, moving into the room. 

Her words seemed to galvanise Arya and they were both their hovering over their mother, unsure of what to do when Robb, Ser Rodrik and half the castle guards burst into the room.

\----------

Late that night Sansa sat next to her mother’s bed, her hand resting on her mother’s wrist, wanting to hold her hand to reassure herself that she was still there, but the bandages were bulky and Sansa was scared of making the cuts worse. The dagger had cut almost to the bone, and Maester Luwin had liberally dosed her with milk of the poppy.

“She’s going to be okay, Sansa,” Robb said from where he stood at the window, looking out.

Arya was curled up on the bed, her head resting on their mother’s legs. “How was he even able to get in?”

“He was hiding out in the stables. Ser Rodrik and Theon found his belongings in an unused stable.”

“Why would he want to harm Bran?” Sansa asked softly.

Robb frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that he wasn’t from Winterfell. We found a bag of silver stags amongst his belongings, and Maester Luwin says that the dagger is Valyrian steel. How would a catspaw get hold of such a blade?”

Sansa couldn’t help but notice that the night’s events had aged Robb. His face was weary and the beginnings of a beard shadowed his jawline and when he looked at her, she could see the tightness around his eyes.

“I bet it was the fat king,” Arya suddenly said from the bed. “He wanted Bran dead to punish Father for refusing him.”

There was real hatred in Arya’s voice as she said it as well as conviction. It made her little sister seem older than her nine years and harder. Harder and colder and a stranger whom Sansa was suddenly afraid for. 

Sansa’s stomach contracted, anxiety settling there once more as she realised that someone had wanted Bran dead so badly that they had hired a catspaw to do the job. And that person had hidden out in their castle - in the midst of their _home_ \- to murder her little brother.

“Robb-,” she started to say, but her voice trailed off as she could not quite express what she wanted. She honestly did not know what she needed to hear him say, but her fear made her desperate for some kind of reassurance. 

Her brother looked from her to Arya before rubbing his hand over his jaw. He summoned a smile, small and tired though it was, and said, “You should both get some rest. It has been a long night. And I don’t want either of you worrying. The guards are patrolling the castle, including the uninhabited parts. There are guards outside Bran’s door, too. No one will be able to get to him again.”

“You will tell us if you uncover more in the morning, won’t you, Robb?” Arya asked.

“Yes, of course,” Robb said smoothly but Sansa could tell it was a lie. She had seen that he thought he had said too much to his younger sisters when he had looked between them. He would not tell them any more, of that she was sure. Her anger at that decision took her by surprise. She and Arya deserved to know the truth. Whilst Father was away and Mother lay injured and sleeping, they deserved to know as much as Robb did.

“We’re not too young,” she blurted out suddenly, and Robb looked at her with narrowed eyes.

“You’re only eleven and nine. I don’t want you worrying.”

Arya scoffed. “And you’re only fourteen. Just because you have a real sword strapped to your hip now, it doesn’t mean you are an adult.”

Robb’s cheeks flushed and his eyes flashed with the temper that would suddenly rise in him. Father had always laughed when Robb would get angry like this, said his temper was from his brother Brandon, whilst mother would smile and say that all Starks had a temper. “I am the Stark in Winterfell. It is my duty to see the castle is safe, but I do not answer to my sisters.”

“We’re family. A pack, Father says. You should share with us,” Arya said, firing up.

“You are too young to be burdened with this,” Robb said, a mulish look on his face. “I should not have said all that I did.”

Sansa could see the battle lines forming and a sudden weariness hit her. She had no energy to fight with Robb right now, not that her anger had abated at his high handed treatment of them. She rose from the chair she had been sitting on and held her hand out to Arya. “Come on, Arya, let us retire to bed and leave _Lord_ Robb to figure everything out.” She shot her older brother a glare as she said it before sweeping out of the room. 

Arya followed in her wake, grumbling under her breath the whole way to their bedchamber. When Sansa saw the guards posted outside their room, she felt remorse at her words to Robb. She bet if she checked on Rickon, there would be guards outside his bedchamber, too.

\----------

It was four days before her mother awoke. Four long days in which Sansa tried to help Maester Luwin in her care. She would sit next to her mother, gently squeezing honey water into her mouth, and reading to her from her favourite books. Those that had not been burnt anyway.

To her surprise, Arya would often help her. They would sit side by side hoping that their mother would wake soon. 

“I miss her,” Arya murmured to Sansa one afternoon. “I miss Father, too.”

Sansa had never been close to her sister. They were too different. Their father used to say they were as different as the sun and the moon but that the same blood ran through their veins and one day they would realise that was more important. His eyes would always grow sad when he said that and Sansa wondered if he missed having his siblings around. 

“Me too,” Sansa whispered back.

Arya had rested her head then on her shoulder and Sansa had never felt as close to her sister as in that moment. 

Then Lady Catelyn had woken and Sansa had been overjoyed to see the life back in her mother’s eyes. The deadened look had disappeared to be filled with determination and a steeliness that Sansa had never seen before. 

As soon as her mother had dressed, she had called for a council, sending for Robb and his men even before her food had arrived. Sansa had very much wanted to stay and hear what was said, but her mother had kindly but firmly sent her away. “This is not yet for you, sweetling. Go and find Jeyne instead.”

After that, Mother had been back to her usual self and although she continued to sit for long hours besides Bran, she would always take her meals in the Great Hall with the rest of them and bustled about her business in the castle. Sansa felt the worries of the previous week wash away. There was no more talk about catspaws or people wanting Bran dead. The guards disappeared from outside her bedchamber and Sansa slipped back into her previous routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa jumps around a little here, but please try to remember she is a young teenage girl experiencing a stressful time. She will have mature moments and she will have petulant moments.


	7. Bran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This chapter owes a massive debt to the original in AGOT. There are chunks that are original text so it seems apt to put in a disclaimer once more that this story owes everything to the characters and world that GRRM created and that I make no profit from writing this, it's purely a fun 'what-if' scenario.
> 
> My thanks, once more, to DKNC for all her help with this chapter and story in general.

It felt as if he had been falling for years.

_Fly_ , a voice whispered in the darkness, but Bran could do nothing but fall. 

He remembered Maester Luwin baking a boy of clay that he dressed in Bran’s clothes and pushed off a tower. He remembered how it had shattered, scaring a maidservant who had the misfortune to be passing by at that moment. She had cried out in fear as small bits of clay spread across the courtyard until Maester Luwin had called down in apology.  
“But I never fall,” was all Bran had said at the time.

Now he did nothing but fall. 

Far below the grey mist that swirled around him, Bran could vaguely make out the land below. He knew he would wake just before he hit. You always woke up just before you hit the ground in dreams.

_Will you?_ the voice said again, and Bran looked around to see a three-eyed crow watching him, intelligence shining out of its third eye.

“Of course,” Bran replied. “You always wake up before you hit.”

_Fly_ , the crow said, and Bran looked down once more. The ground was still far away but closer than it had been and he began to feel scared. The mist was cold and grey, and he was alone and still falling.

_Try to fly_ , the crow said.

“I can’t!” Bran cried. “I can’t fly!”

_Fly, not cry_ , the crow insisted. 

“I will wake up before I hit,” Bran said, trying to reassure himself as he continued to fall. 

_You die if you hit the floor_ , the crow said. _Now fly!_

“I can’t. I don’t have wings like you.”

_Mayhaps you do_ , came the reply, and Bran groped at his arms and shoulders trying to find feathers. _Not those kind of wings_ , the crow said. _There are other types of wings. Now try._

But all Bran could see was the grey mist and his skinny limbs. _Have I always been so skinny?_ he wondered before a face swam up before him out of the mist, a golden light shining around it. “The things I do for love,” it said.

Bran screamed and the crow took to the air, cawing as it flew around him. _Not that. Forget that!_ It commanded. _Try to fly._

“I can’t!” Bran cried again.

In a mass of dark feathers, the crow was before him, pecking at his face and suddenly Bran was falling faster, plummeting towards the ground much quicker than he had been previously. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, scared. 

_Helping you fly._

“I can’t fly.”

_You are flying now._

“I’m falling.”

_Every flight starts with a fall_ , the crow said. _Look down._

“I am afraid…”

_LOOK DOWN!_

Bran looked down and felt his head spin. He could see the whole world before him so clearly that he forgot to be afraid. The realm spread out before him, a rush of brown and green and white and he could see everyone within it. 

His eyes zoomed in on Winterfell, seeing it as an eagle would. He could see Maester Luwin on his balcony studying the stars. Robb was in the yard, practising swordplay, only he was bigger and taller than Bran remembered, and in his hand was real steel. 

He saw his mother, sitting steadfastly next to a still, unmoving figure. _That’s me_ , he realised. Her hands were bandaged as she rested them on his chest. Her hair was not as neat as it usually was and tears leaked from her eyes as her gaze rested steadily on his face. The door opened revealing Vayon Poole, and his mother stood slowly, kissing his forehead as she left the room in the steward’s wake. 

Sansa sat in ladies’ solar, the brazier lit, Septa Mordane one side and Jeyne the other, as they sewed and gossiped. He could see the bright yellow thread that Sansa stitched daintily into the fabric, as the Baratheon stag faced off against the Lannister lion. Direwolves ran in the other corner. 

Bran’s gaze moved to the godswood, where the heart tree sat brooding over the reflective pool. Almost as if it felt Bran watching, it lifted its eyes and stared back knowingly. There was a shout and Arya burst through the surrounding trees, wolf at her side, and collapsed under the shade of the tree, laughing as Rickon stumbled in her wake, half leaning on his black wolf. 

Then his eyes move south, across the marshy lands that made up the Neck, across to the vast waters of the Trident where the king made his progress back to King’s Landing. The fat king sat sulkily, a goblet of wine clutched in his hand as the queen remonstrated with him until he got to his feet and roared. 

His eyes moved across the Narrow Sea, past the Free Cities to the green Dothraki Sea where the horse lords moved in never ended processions, and out further east to the fabled lands of the Jade Sea to Asshai by the Shadow, where dragons stirred.

Finally, his eyes moved North, where a small group with a white direwolf trekked their way south in the hills to the west of the Kingsroad. The wolf tipped his head up and howled and in the distance five direwolves answered. His kin, Bran knew for certain. 

Bran looked past the Wall, and the men in black who slept in its shadow, further north into the vast snow-capped forests that spread over the land, and saw his father and uncle Benjen, torches in hand fighting dead foe.

He wanted to stay, to linger on them to see how they fared, but his eyes moved ever further north, over frozen tundra and great blue rivers of ice, to dead lands where nothing could grow or live. North, and north and north all the way to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks.

_Now you know_ , the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. _Now you know why you must live._

“Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling.

_Because winter is coming._

Bran looked at the crow, and its third eye was full of terrible knowledge. Below him, there was nothing but snow and cold and death, a frozen land of emptiness where blue-white spikes of jagged ice waited to embrace him. He could see the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points and he was desperately afraid. 

He thought back to the day his father had taken him to see the Night’s Watch deserter beheaded and heard his own voice ask, “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”

His father’s voice replied, “That’s the only time a man can be brave.”

_Now, Bran_ , the crow urged. _Choose. Fly or die._

The spikes of ice reached up for him, clamouring for his death but instead Bran reached out his arms and flew. 

Unseen wings spread from his arms and he soared on the wind, flying upwards and leaving the jagged ice far below. Exhilaration flooded through his body as he wheeled on the wind as the world below receded. It was better than anything else he had ever experienced. Better than climbing even. 

“I’m flying!” he cried out in delight.

_I’ve noticed_ said the three-eyed crow as it took the air with him. Suddenly it was before him, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him and blinding him. Bran felt a burning pain in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes, as the crow pecked at him. 

“What are you doing?” he shrieked.

And the crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of fear, as the mist around him swirled and swayed, dissipating as the veil was ripped from his eyes and Bran saw that the crow was really a black haired serving woman. She dropped the bowl that was in her hand, water splashing over the floor as it shattered on the stone. 

“He’s awake!” she shouted, and he could hear her clattering down the narrow spiral stairs continuing to shout, “He’s awake, he’s awake.”

There was a thud as something warm and heavy landed on the bed. Bran looked up into bright yellow eyes that seemed to blaze with the heat of the sun. The warmth that came off the wolf chased the remaining chill from his bones away. _My pup_ , he thought. But this was no pup anymore. His wolf had grown whilst he had been away, and he reached out a trembling hand to stroke him.

By the time his mother burst into the room, her breath panting heavily with the exertion of running up the stairs, his brother Robb close behind her, his wolf was licking at his face.

Bran looked up calmly. “His name is Summer,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, a brief note to say that there will be no updates for this story until the beginning of August as I'm taking a fandom hiatus for RL things.


	8. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know several of you have been waiting a long time for Lyanna and co to make it to Winterfell, well in this chapter they finally do.
> 
> All my thanks, as usual, to DKNC for all her help with this chapter.

By the smell, the deer was close, and he was tempted. If he hadn’t killed and fed the night before, he would have taken it down. He could practically taste the venison in his mouth. The flesh was sweeter down here, softer and easier to tear from the bone. 

The fire behind spat, and he passed by the father man who stood sentinel. Here, the snow lay softer and more powdery under his paws than the harder compacted ice further north, and the smells were wrong, too. The clear, sharp air had given way to something more musky and damp, the smell of rotting leaves and rain soaked trees. 

There was a howl in the distance, and Ghost’s ears pricked up. He had heard wolves all the way south but this was a not the cry of his smaller cousins, but of a direwolf like himself. He tilted his head up at the lightening sky and howled back.

Jon woke in a tangle of furs, his hair hanging over his eyes. He shoved it out of his way and looked around for Ghost. 

“Shut that wolf up, please, Jon!” his mother called from where she was struggling out of her own furs, a hand on the sword that never left her side. 

His father had been on guard and already had Dawn unsheathed and in his hands, scanning the surroundings to see what had started Ghost off. 

_Ser Arthur_ , he thought with a scowl, remembering that he was not his father after all. He wasn’t even kin, just the remnants of a dead man’s Kingsguard. He’d managed to prise that much out of his mother and father during their time at Castle Black.

Old Maester Aemon had given him more information about his father, and had even shown Jon the few letters he kept in his meagre belongings that were written in Rhaegar Targaryen’s hand. Jon had struggled to equate the spidery scrawl that spoke of prophecies and politics with a father he had never wanted. Indeed, he found it easier not to dwell on Rhaegar Targaryen, confused by the antipathy he felt towards the person who had sired him, someone he had never even met. 

“There’s no danger. Ghost just heard another direwolf,” Jon said unthinkingly, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

His mother stopped short and gave him a confused look. “How could you know that Ghost heard another direwolf?”

Jon frowned and said, “I don’t know. I dreamt it, just before he woke us up with his howl.”

He had never had such a thing happen before, had never been in Ghost’s head whilst he slept. He had a bond with Ghost that was not usual, he knew that much. He had heard the mutterings in the village about wargs and seen the jealous looks Orell had given him. It had culminated in Ghost biting Orell, as he needled Jon into losing his temper. It was then that Jon had realised just how deep his bond with Ghost went.

He looked up from where he was studying Ghost, catching the back end of an anxious look between his mother and father. 

“There have been no direwolves south of the Wall for hundreds of years,” Lyanna said, and Jon shrugged, not responding. He didn’t like seeing his mother worry about him and so didn’t explain how Ghost had felt a kindred bond with this direwolf and the others he could sense. There were five and they were family, Ghost was sure.

As soon as it was light and they had broken their fast on the last of their dried beef and hard cheese, they set off once more. Heading south just to the west of the Kingsroad, they remained hidden from view by the dense trees of the Wolfswood. 

Jon had spent the majority of the journey down from the Wall in silence. He did not wish to be here, wanting to be with Ygritte, Sygmund, and Alyn instead. He would even take Orell’s company right now as long as he could be by Mance’s side getting ready for the biggest fight the Free Folk had known in generations. He wanted his name to be listed among those whose valiant deeds would go down in history. Mayhaps even a song of his own.

Father, _no, not father but Ser Arthur_ had snorted when Jon had told him this. Back when they were still at the village.

“Son,” he had said with his lilting Dornish accent that was mocked by the Free Folk behind his back. Only the bravest or the drunkest looked to do so to his face. “Your place is at your mother’s side, not off fighting a losing war.”

“A losing war?!” Jon had exclaimed. “But Mance has united the clans, has thousands of men as well as giants and mammoths. We will crush the crows and the south will be ours.”

Arthur had smiled sadly. “Jon, even if Mance manages to take the Wall, he will find the armies of your kin in his way. The Starks have ever held the North and defended it from Wildling attack. Mance may gather a large army around him, but there is no discipline there. It is every man for himself and that will not hold against more organised forces.”

Jon had scowled at the use of the term Wildling and his father’s words. “But my friends-” he had started to say.

“If you want to help your friends then you will come with your mother. She offers more help to the Wildlings than they know or appreciate. Her brother will listen to her. Only negotiation will get the Wildlings south of the Wall, they cannot fight their way there.”

“Then I want to die by their sides!” he had exclaimed. “Not flee south to become some mewling kneeler.”

Arthur had grasped Jon’s shoulder. “And leave your mother? She has always thought about you, put you first, and now you seek to run off to die?”

Jon had felt shame at his father’s _Ser Arthur’s_ words so he had come south, ignoring the taunts of Orell, who from that moment onwards mockingly called him milord or Lord Snow. But the betrayed looks Ygritte gave him had hurt the most.

\----------

It was another two days before Lyanna led them from out of the Wolfswood, the biggest smile Jon had ever seen on her face.

“Close your eyes, son,” she said, as the trees began to thin. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with anticipation. Jon didn’t think he had ever seen her look so beautiful.

“Mother,” he said protesting. 

“No, please, Jon. I would like you to see Winterfell properly the very first time I show it to you.”

He gave a long suffering sigh before shooting his mother a teasing glance. “Just don’t let me bump into a tree. I wouldn’t want Father to have to carry me in.”

She tutted at him, giving him a quick cuff around the ear. He caught her hand, squeezed it slightly before closing his eyes. “Show me your home then, Mother.”

“ _Our_ home, Jon, _Our_ home.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to remind her that he had only known beyond the Wall and the Free Folk, but he swallowed the retort, keen not to ruin this moment for her.

Despite himself, anticipation rose bubbling up from his stomach causing his heartbeat to hasten as he stumbled after his mother. Mayhaps it was to do with her own excitement.

“Open your eyes, Jon,” his mother said finally.

And he did, shock causing his jaw to slacken when he saw the immense size of Winterfell. It rose from the moors, a grey fortress with huge walls giving way to tall towers, bigger than anything he had seen other than the Wall. Buildings could be seen rising out from the walls as well as the tops of a few trees.

“You grew up here?” he asked, awe lacing his tone.

“Yes,” Lyanna replied, tears leaking from her eyes. “It’s the happiest I have ever been.”

A pang of sadness hit Jon. He had not thought his mother was unhappy in their village. She had always seemed content, getting involved in the day to day running of the village and giving Mance advice when he needed it. But now, her face glowing with joy, he could see that he had never seen her truly happy until this moment. 

Giving his mother a moment to savour her home once more, Jon whirled to face his father. “And is Starfall as big?”

Ser Arthur laughed. “No, the Daynes are not as high ranking as the Starks. Starfall is much smaller.”

“But beautiful,” his mother added, a fond smile on her face for the other man. “It sits above a sparkling blue sea and the sun beats down on its walls, Jon. It’s hot, hotter than anything you’ve ever felt, so hot it heats your bones. It’s no wonder your poor father has not been warm since leaving the South.”

Chuckling, Ser Arthur nodded. “Yes, it’s hard for a man used to the sun of Dorne to accustom himself to this harsh weather you Northerners enjoy so much,” he said, tugging a lock of Lyanna’s hair with a playful look. 

Since the revelation about their fake relationship had come out, Jon could not help but feel awkward when faced with their obvious feelings for each other. He hadn’t quite worked up the courage to ask why they only pretended. And he struggled to remember that the man who he had called Father his entire life was anything but his father.

\--------

Jon had never felt more ill-at-ease than he did now, sitting with his mother’s kin in the large Great Hall during the evening meal. Not even at his worst in the village had he squirmed as much in his skin, aware of the eyes that studied him.

The Lady of Winterfell had met them soon after they had come through Hunter’s Gate, a polite smile, and an apology on her lips that Lord Stark was not here to personally greet his sister. Jon had noticed the linen tied around her hand and the stiff way in which she moved it, as if it pained her. He had wondered what could have caused such an injury. Lady Stark did not look as if she could fight. However, his attention had soon been distracted by the disappointment that had flashed in his mother’s eyes then, and Jon had wondered if it was because her brother was not here or because his sons and daughters all looked like the auburn haired Lady Stark. 

_All but one_ , Jon had thought, his eyes straying to the youngest girl, who had the dark hair and grey eyes of the Starks. Her eyes had lit up when she caught sight of Lyanna and Jon, and he now pondered if looking so different from her siblings had been difficult. She was currently watching him, a shy smile on her face and when he returned it, it morphed into a grin that was endearing. With her ratty hair and a dress that had mud spotted liberally over the skirt, she would not have been out of place amongst the Free Folk. Thinking of his home beyond the Wall had him longing for his village, for the familiar, and not this alien place.

Jon had hoped Arya would be sitting beside him. She had been the friendliest, along with her little brother, Rickon, who had been wary of Jon at first until he had seen Ghost. The little boy had then accepted his brother with no qualms. The other young Stark brother, Bran, Jon had not set eyes on. Apparently, he was recovering from a fall and did not leave his room yet. 

A gush of laughter withdrew him from his thoughts and he looked up to see the oldest Stark daughter giggling behind her hand to her friend. It was not difficult to realise they laughed at him and his clothes, which stood out in the grand castle. Jon flushed, tugging at the collar of his roughspun tunic, aware that it was no match for his cousins’ finery, with its poor quality material and basic stitching. It had been designed to last beyond the Wall where life was harsh. A flash of anger swept through him at how these two silly girls mocked him and his clothes, knowing nothing beyond the pampered life they had led in their castle. 

An elbow jostled into Jon’s side painfully. “Watch yourself, Wildling,” said the tall black haired man who currently sat next to Jon.

_Greyjoy that was his name_ , Jon thought. He had smirked at Jon when they had met, an eyebrow rising when he had taken in Jon’s attire. He had leant over and whispered something in the oldest Stark’s ear, causing Robb to laugh and Jon’s cheeks to flush.

Greyjoy had not been much kinder since, a sardonic smirk on his lips every time he set eyes on Jon, which made him feel out of place. Robb had followed suit, not unkindly like Greyjoy, but ready to laugh at the other man's japes at Jon’s expense. 

Jon looked down at his plate and could not help but wish Ygritte or Sygmund was with him.

He turned to look at his father. 

_He’s not my father_ , Jon thought, annoyed that he struggled to see the Dornishman in any other light. Ser Arthur was sitting next to a man with bushy white whiskers. They were deep in conversation, his father looking perfectly at ease despite wearing similar clothes to Jon. His mother was seated at the right hand of Lady Stark, looking strange to Jon in a dress she had unearthed from her old trunks, which she had been pleased to find had not been thrown away. She had twirled about in it, laughing at how it had only needed taking out a little to fit her. The cares that seemed to rest permanently on his mother’s shoulders had gone. Jon had not even realised she had carried them until he saw her within the walls of Winterfell. She looked carefree and younger, and had spent the days reacquainting herself with Winterfell and its people.

Jon could not help but feel some resentment at just how easy they both looked in this setting. _This is their world, not mine_ , he thought savagely. _I do not belong here_.

He did not think he had been so miserable in all his life. He might have been different from the other Free Folk, mocked at times for the strange ways he was being taught, but they had at least been friendly. Now he was amongst people who looked at him warily, laughed at his clothes and sneeringly called him a Wildling.

_I’d rather be a Wildling than like you_ , he thought defiantly.

\-----------

On the covered bridge that connected the Great Keep to the armoury, there was a ledge that overlooked the training yard. It was the part of the castle that Jon was most familiar with as he had come here the last three days and watched the men of the household spar.

When at home, Jon had always hated the lessons his father had imposed on him. Training with swords in the morning and learning Westerosi history and culture in the afternoons. He had wanted to run free like his friends and on those days when his father went hunting, he did. His mother had always been much more accepting of Free Folk ways than his father. His friends in the village had laughed at this strict routine, often watching the training and teasing at Jon’s wooden sword or the blunted steel his father had made him use. Jon had never told them what he had learnt in the afternoons, grateful that only his mother, father and Mance could read. He had resented this strict routine, only seeing how it set him apart from the rest of the Free Folk.

But since he had been at Winterfell, Jon realised that Ser Arthur had been training him so he would fit into society south of the Wall and he had wondered if the plan had been to come south all along. Had Ser Arthur planned for him to try and take what had once belonged to his family?

But his mother and Ser Arthur had spoken to him sternly the night before they had entered Winterfell. He was not to call Ser Arthur anything but Father, his mother had warned him, and he had flushed, knowing his new deliberate habit of calling the older man Ser Arthur had not escaped her notice. “No matter what, Jon. No one can know Arthur is not your father. Do you understand?”

He had nodded then, thinking back to Maester Aemon at Castle Black who had cried a little when he had gone to bid him goodbye. “I never thought I would feel the skin of mine own flesh again,” Maester Aemon had said, the weathered skin on his hand moving over Jon’s cheek. “I just wish I could see you.”

“Mother says I look all Stark,” Jon had mumbled.

“Mayhaps,” Aemon had said, tears leaking from his milky eyes. “But you have the blood of the dragon all the same.”

Once they had reached the home of the Starks, his mother had quickly organised for Jon to take lessons with Maester Luwin. No doubt his mother had thought that he would join his oldest cousin Robb, but Jon had asked Maester Luwin if he could have lessons at a separate time, citing that his father had arranged for him to train at the time Maester Luwin taught Robb. Jon had no desire to the butt of anyone’s japes, and he knew that Greyjoy sometimes attended Robb’s lessons and would continue to mock him. Ser Arthur had looked thoughtfully at him when he had requested that they continue their training when Robb had his lessons with Maester Luwin, but Jon had been grateful that Ser Arthur had just nodded and said nothing.

He had also been grateful that Ser Arthur had taught Jon well, something Maester Luwin had commented on, praising Jon’s knowledge.

There was a huff, and a warm body flopped to the floor next to him. He turned his head to see Arya, her chin resting in the upturned palms of her hands. 

“Why don’t you spar with them?” she asked, with a nod in the direction of her brother.

He shrugged, not wanting to say it was because of Greyjoy and how he made Robb laugh at his ways, but he could tell that she knew, as pity shone out of her eyes. 

“I’ve seen you, you know. You’re skilled and good enough to shove Theon’s words down his throat.”

“I thought I trained when you were in lessons,” Jon said.

She grinned. “I’m not always where I am meant to be.”

He laughed at that. 

“I wish I could learn to fight,” Arya said, a frown descending on her face.

“Why don’t you?” Jon asked.

“Septa Mordane says the only sharp object a lady should deploy is a needle and Mother agrees.”

Jon couldn’t help the snort that escaped. “I am sorry, but beyond the Wall, women fight alongside their men.”

Arya sat up, eagerness written all over her face. “Is it true Aunt Lyanna can fight?”

“She’s one of the best.”

His little cousin sighed. “I wish I could run away to the land beyond the Wall, and then I could learn to fight.”

“But Mother did not learn to fight with the Free Folk,” Jon said with a frown. “She learnt at Winterfell. She used to tell me all about her fights with her brother Benjen. Besides, the Free Folk are not like here. There was no training ground or Master-at-Arms in the village. The Free Folk learn to fight as they do to hunt. It’s a necessity to survive. It’s not the same as how Mother and Father were taught, where it’s a skill to be honed and refined.”

“But you fight like Robb does,” Arya said.

“Well, yes, but only because my father taught me that way. Truthfully, my friends in the village used to laugh at me.”

The glum expression descended onto Arya’s face again, and Jon felt sad that he had put it back. “Sansa and Jeyne laugh at me, too. Septa Mordane says I have hands like a blacksmith and Jeyne neighs at me and calls me Arya Horseface.” She kicked her feet off the wall and let them thud back against the stone. “It’s not my fault that I can’t sew or am not as pretty as Sansa.”

Jon put his arm around Arya’s thin little shoulders. “You look like my mother and she doesn’t have a horseface, so I wouldn’t pay attention to what this Jeyne says.”

Arya scoffed. “Aunt Lyanna is beautiful, even Sansa says so and I’m not, so I can’t look like her.”

“Well, my mother says you look just as she did at your age, and I think she’s a better judge of who looks like her than most. She also said you ride a horse better than she did.”

His little cousin looked up at him then, unshed tears in her eyes and a hesitant expression on her face, and asked, “Are you just saying that?”

“No. Why would I lie?”

“Because only my father calls me pretty.”

“Your father is right.”

She burrowed her way into his side and whispered into his tunic, “I wish you were my brother.”  
Jon squeezed her with the arm that was wrapped around her shoulder, an inexplicable warmth flooding through him. Jon had never had a brother or sister but had always wanted one. When little, he asked his mother repeatedly and had never understood her pained expression. But since Castle Black, he knew why.

\----------

A few days later, Jon wandered out into the training yard. His lesson with Maester Luwin ended early as a raven had come for Lady Stark, and upon reading it, Maester Luwin had paled, excused himself, and rushed off.

Jon had the vague intention of heading over to the forge to see what Mikken was doing. He was one of the only people at Winterfell who did not look at Jon with wide-eyed wonder. Instead, he’d nod, answer Jon’s questions curtly and go about his business. Jon enjoyed the uncomplicated company. Throughout Winterfell, Jon and Ser Arthur were viewed with suspicion by the castle retainers, Ser Arthur’s strange accent setting him apart and Jon’s unfamiliarity with the way of life. However, Lyanna had been taken into the Stark retainers’ hearts once more. Laughter would often follow her as she jested with Gage and his kitchen staff. Old Nan would sit there, her wrinkled hand on Lyanna’s face, as she spoke of past Starks. His mother would often come away from those sessions with tears on her face. 

But Jon’s plans were thwarted as Robb and Greyjoy were still clearing up after their morning’s training.

“Oh look, if it isn’t the Wildling,” Greyjoy called from where he was putting arrows away, his bow slung around his neck. He waved one in the air. “Fancy a competition, Snow? Or is the reason you’ve never trained with us because you cannot compete, being a barbarian.”

Jon narrowed his eyes, thinking back to Ygritte and how she had taught him to hunt. He was not a natural with the bow, his swordplay being of much greater quality, but he fired arrows well enough that he could take on most people and win. He smiled grimly and said, “You’re on, Greyjoy.”

The older man hooted before turning to Robb, who was watching from the sides, his thoughtful look changing into a smile. “You’ll keep score, will you not, Stark.”

As Greyjoy and Robb set up the target, Jon strode over to inspect the bows, testing them for flexibility, keen to prove all the unkind words Greyjoy had spoken about the Free Folk wrong. As he found one that suited him, Ghost had strayed to where Grey Wind sat watching proceedings. Ghost had done a better job fitting in with his wolf kin than Jon had with his. 

“Right,” Robb called, when the target had been set up, and bows and arrows picked. “You both get three shots, the one closest to the bullseye wins. Snow, you’re up first.”

The first two rounds of shots had Jon losing and the grin getting wider on Greyjoy’s face. He was better than Jon, that was for sure, but if Ygritte had been here, then she would’ve had him beat. Ygritte had always been good at picking out people’s weaknesses when she had shot against others for wagers. No one would go up against her now, not unless there were visiting tribes in the village, but there had been a year when she had won prized possessions off most of the men in the village, who had laughed at the thought of being beaten by a skinny girl. 

If she had been watching this, she would have told Jon to use Greyjoy’s arrogance against him. _He doesn’t expect much from you, Jon, now use that to your advantage_ , he could almost hear her say in his ear. 

Taking a deep breath and blocking out all the surrounding noise, Jon focused on the target, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Jon pulled the bowstring until it was taut and as soon as he released it once more, he knew that he had fired well. The arrow thudded into the centre of the bullseye, knocking Greyjoy’s arrowhead out.

There was a stunned silence before Robb let out a disbelieving laugh and said, “Better that if you can, Greyjoy!”

Red cheeked and stern faced, Greyjoy stepped up to the mark, all his biting humour gone. He took an age to get set and when he was finally ready, his shoulders were so tense that it radiated down the bowarm. He released the string and the arrow hit well wide of the centre.

“I guess that makes barbarians better than Ironborn,” Jon said smugly.

Robb laughed his appreciation but Greyjoy swung around as if he had been hit. 

“I don’t know why you’re laughing, Stark, he’s just a savage son of a Dornishman and his whore,” Greyjoy said bitingly. 

Jon’s blood boiled in rage, but he was surprised to see Robb there first, Grey Wind snarling at his side, as he faced the Ironborn man down. “That is my aunt you malign, Greyjoy, and you would do well to remember it.”

Greyjoy’s lips curled into an ugly smile. “My apologies, Stark. I did not mean to insult the honour of your aunt.”

The tone was sneering and Jon narrowed his eyes in anger, and he started across the yard, ready to put his fist in Greyjoy’s face, but before he could get close, his father called out to him, “Jon! It’s time to train.”

He turned to see Ser Arthur standing there, observing the stand-off with an impassive face. “I thought you might like to practice with Dawn today.”

His father rarely let him handle Dawn. It was saved as a reward for good behaviour and Jon’s eyebrows rose as his father added, “You, too, Robb, if you would like.”

His cousin rushed forward, his anger forgotten at the prospect of such a treat. “Really?” Robb asked eagerly. 

“I have seen you train. Lord Eddard and Ser Rodrik have taught you well.”

A wry smile lifted the corner of Jon’s mouth. Robb’s excitement practically radiated of him. It left Jon in no doubt that his father had heard Greyjoy’s words and this was a reward for Robb jumping to his aunt’s defence. Ser Arthur’s next actions confirmed this to Jon.

His father’s expression turned cold as he turned to the other man. “Ser Rodrik was looking for you, Greyjoy. He asks that you join him in the Guard’s Hall.”

The older boy didn’t move for a moment but then he nodded curtly with a brief, “My thanks, Ser Arthur.” He gave Jon a glare as he left the yard.

Jon waited until Greyjoy had left before he turned, and he smiled once more as he watched Robb handle the milky blade with reverence, all the while peppering his father – _Ser Arthur_ – with questions.


	9. Catelyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long delay in between updates. I had a dry spell for writing and then was concentrating on finishing off another WIP. Thank you for your patience and also your continued reviews and kudos, they are much appreciated.
> 
> Parts of the dialogue between Robb, Bran and Tyrion were taken straight from the corresponding chapter in A Game of Thrones
> 
> My thanks as usual to DKNC for her insights into Cat and also for beta'ing this chapter.

Catelyn hurried as quickly as she could from Maester Luwin’s tower, for once making her way to the godswood rather than her sept for consolation from the terrible tidings brought to Winterfell by that blasted raven.

_Dark wings, dark words._

Never more had those words been true than right now. However, they offered her no consolation as she hurried through the bustling castle to the one place where she might feel Ned’s presence as strongly as if he were in Winterfell rather than lost beyond the Wall. 

Catelyn could only draw breath once she had reached the safety of the godswood. Hugging one of the trees just beyond the entrance, she doubled over and drew in mouthfuls of the mulch tanged air in an attempt to regain her equilibrium. 

_Oh, Ned! Where are you?_

Almost as if it drew her towards it, Catelyn found her way to the heart tree. She had never felt comfortable in this place. The godswood was of the North, older by far than the castle that had grown up around it. She had always thought the unease she suffered under the bowers of the old trees had been the godswood’s way of telling her that she was no more than a Southron, accepted only due to her union with Lord Stark, but never truly of this place. 

But now, her footsteps took her to the one place she associated most with Ned, as if seeking comfort from the ancient presence of the gnarled Weirwood tree. Starks were First Men and these were their gods. Surely if any were to aid Ned at this time, it would be the old gods rather than her seven. 

Catelyn drew back involuntarily at the sight of the man who knelt before the heart tree. For a heart stopping moment, she had thought it was Ned, returned without her knowing to the castle. But then she had realised there was no grey in the dark beard that had started to grow on the young cheeks or in the hair that fell to his shoulders. He was no more than a boy on the cusp of manhood.

It was Lyanna’s son, the quiet boy who spoke little and crept about the castle as if he feared he would be banished out the gates at any moment. He impacted so little on her day-to-day life that she had forgotten his presence at times. 

Right now his presence at Winterfell was an uncomfortable reminder that her husband was not there. 

The boy looked as at ease in the godswood as Ned did, and Catelyn felt a brief pang of resentment that he was here, safe behind the walls of Winterfell, when her own husband’s whereabouts was unknown. He had not been heard from since setting off into the Haunted Forest with Benjen nearly a moon past. 

But it had been of little comfort when she had read those words, the stark black ink jumping off the cream coloured parchment. Ned had gone with Benjen on a ranging out into the lands beyond the Wall to find information regarding two missing men of the Night’s Watch and to gather more information on the whereabouts of the Wildlings, as well as the stories of the Others. They were meant to have returned ten days prior but had not yet been spotted.

And now Catelyn’s heart hurt even more, looking into this face that mirrored his uncle’s so perfectly. 

Almost as if sensing her pain, the young man jumped to his feet, his hands clasped a little nervously behind his back. “My apologies, my Lady, I did not see you there.”

Catelyn smiled softly. “It is no matter, Jon. I hope I do not intrude on your prayers.”

He shook his head and looked awkwardly down at his feet. Whilst he might look at home here in the godswood, he looked so very out of place in the rest of Winterfell, even once his Wildling clothes had been replaced with more suitable attire. 

His awkward uncertainty suddenly struck her as achingly familiar, and Catelyn’s heart softened towards the boy. He reminded her of Ned when he had come to Riverrun to marry her in his brother’s place. Ned had looked just as lost and uncomfortable then.

“And are you settling in Winterfell?” she asked, keen to try and put Jon at ease at little more. He always jumped like a scolded cat in her presence. 

“Yes, my Lady,” he replied, once again in that subdued tone.

“I believe you have struck up a friendship with Arya. She is always so very full of ‘Jon said this’ and ‘Jon said that’.”

A genuine smile broke across the boy’s face, making her heart stutter in how it transformed his face exactly the same way it did with Ned. “She is like the little sister I never had,” he said, twisting his fingers self-consciously, almost as if he worried that he might offend her in some way.

“Then I am very pleased you are here, Jon. Arya has not always found it easy to find her place at Winterfell or amongst her siblings. She is much in need of a true friend.”

He nodded before muttering his apologies and scampering away into the trees. Catelyn smiled at his retreat and wondered once more why Lyanna had never had any more children. Of course, it was more than possible that she was unable. After all, she must have gone to her child bed at a very young age. She could have been no older than six and ten as Jon was of an age with Robb.

The count back in years had Catelyn catching her breath and her head reeling. Since Lyanna and Jon’s arrival at Winterfell, she had not given any thought to Jon’s age. But now the truth of just why Lyanna might have disappeared without word to her brothers hit Catelyn with the force of a sledgehammer.

Robb had been born at Riverrun whilst Ned was still out at war. It was probable that Lyanna would already have left where she had been staying with Rhaegar when Jon was born. After all, the Targaryen crown prince had already been dead for many months by the time Catelyn was confined to her child bed, and Jon was just under a month older than Robb. 

But Rhaegar had been very much alive when Jon had been conceived. Had Lyanna and Ser Arthur cuckolded Rhaegar? The description of the Tower of Joy, which Lyanna had provided, would have made that difficult. Lyanna had japed that the confined space with little privacy had been good practice for the deprivations she would later suffer in the Wildling village. Catelyn also had a good measure of Ser Arthur’s character. The man retained the honour that the Kingsguard were – or had been prior to the Kingslayer’s act – famed for. 

Catelyn pressed her lips together tightly at the other possibility. King Robert had left Winterfell angry enough already, and if he caught wind of Jon’s existence and potential parentage, then his affection for Ned would be no protection from the wrath that would descend on House Stark. 

And Ned is not here, she thought, the reality of the situation hitting home and making her clutch at a branch of the heart tree. 

Laying her heated brow against the cool white Weirwood bark, Catelyn found a prayer on her lips. It had none of the ritualised formality of the prayers she would utter in the Sept, but was a plea from her heart to the gods that held sway over the wilderness that ran ever northwards beyond the Wall.

_Keep him safe. Let him come home._

\------------

It was a few days later when the horns blew to announce riders approaching. For a heart stopping moment, Catelyn had hoped they would remain silent for a single blow signalled the return of the Lord of Winterfell, but in a soul crushing moment, they sounded once more and her head sank back to the book she had been reading to Bran to try and lift his spirits.

Since waking, he had been sullen and angry, fractious over the fact that he could not remember how he had come to fall, but insistent that it had not been an accident. Despite Maester Luwin’s doubts, Catelyn was inclined to believe her son. The niggling feeling that something bigger was at play regarding her son’s accident had been there from the beginning and had only been heightened by the attack of the catspaw that had maimed her. Why else would someone have wanted Bran dead unless he had seen something he should not have? 

Her mind returned each time to the Lannisters. There was no love lost between Ned and that house, not after the sack of King’s Landing. The life of one little boy, Stark or not, would be nothing to a Lannister. The poor little Targaryen children had shown that. Catelyn’s thoughts went back once more to Jon. Had Lyanna heard about what had happened to Rhaenys and Viserys before she had fled? That knowledge could certainly have spurred her to take the action that she did, and Catelyn could understand her desire to protect her child at all costs. 

“Mother?” Bran called, and Catelyn was pulled from her anxious thoughts. Her son, sweet as he was, grasped her hand which rested on the bed close to his, and said, “Father will come home, I know it.”

Catelyn smiled reassuringly. “Of course he will, sweetling.”

There was a knock on the chamber door, and Catelyn called for the person to enter. The door opened and revealed Robb, sword strapped to his side as was his way these days. Part of her admired just how grown up he now looked, but part longed for the little boy he had been. He had been too small to take full charge when Ned had gone to war against the Greyjoys, but now he was Lord of Winterfell in all but name. The thought sent a painful pang through her. Ned would come home. He would.

Robb caught her eye significantly and said, “Mother, Tyrion Lannister and recruiters from the Night’s Watch are here. The Dwarf has asked to see Bran.”

Catelyn’s spine immediately stiffened, and any joy she had of being in the company of her two eldest sons fled. The Imp was at her castle gates and seeking hospitality whilst Bran would never walk again. The urge to seize him and interrogate him on any involvement or knowledge he might have about the ‘fall’ or attack coursed through her before the realisation that she needed to tread carefully. The King could not find out about Lyanna’s presence. Not yet. Ned was not here and her own suspicions about Jon’s father had not been confirmed. A plan of action needed to be devised before the inevitable news of Lyanna’s return could safely be distributed. They could not keep her presence at Winterfell a secret for too long, Catelyn knew that.

“Send up Hodor, Robb, and go and greet our guests in the Great Hall as is your right. I will be down with Bran in a moment.”

Robb nodded and went to leave the chamber. 

“Oh, and Robb,”Catelyn said, and her son turned back round to face her. “Make sure no-one who is not meant to be here is present.”

“I’ve already sent Jon into the godswood with Rickon, Arya, and the wolves. I am not sure where Ser Arthur or my aunt are, though,” he replied.

“I will check on them before I come down.”

Catelyn hoped Hodor would hurry for she did not wish to leave Robb alone for too long with the likes of Tyrion Lannister. Her boy was doing well but he was still only a lad of five-and-ten, no matter how grown up he might look with a sword strapped to his hip.

\-------------

Catelyn slowed her walk as she neared the Great Hall. She would not appear harried and rushed in front of any of Winterfell’s guests, let alone Tyrion Lannister. There was a dignity to being the lady of a great house, something she had learnt a very young age, and one that had kept her in good stead when she had first travelled north to Winterfell.

Bran and Hodor were only just entering the Great Hall, and she slipped in behind them, her eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom of the large room. Her gaze swept around the Hall, picking up on the quiver of tension. Robb sat on the Stark high seat, dressed in boiled leather and chainmail. Catelyn suppressed the small smile at the sight of her eldest son. He might look all Tully, bearing an uncanny resemblance to her own brother, Edmure, but his stance and expression could only be described as Stark grim. Her heart lurched as she saw just how similar to Ned’s his mannerisms were. 

Behind Robb stood Theon Greyjoy and Hallis Mollen, with at least a dozen guardsmen lining the walls. In the middle of the Hall, before Robb, stood the Imp with his servants and 4 men of the Night’s Watch. Surprisingly, there were 3 men of Winterfell, their grey cloaks blending in with the grey of the surrounding stone, who stood with the visitors, too.

Catelyn knew why her son was determined to give such a show of support, but she did wish he had played this a little more diplomatically. At least his sword was sheathed and at his side, rather than aggressively laid bare across his lap, but mayhap she should have gone with him to greet Tyrion Lannister from the beginning. 

Her assessment of the situation did not get any more positive as she moved close enough to hear the Imp say, “Your father sent men of Winterfell with me, boy, so I had thought to receive a little more courtesy in my reception.”

“I am not your boy, Lannister. I am lord here whilst my father is away,” Robb said tetchily.

“With none of your father’s graces, it would appear,” Lannister replied disdainfully. “He treated me with more respect when he offered a guard of Stark men to see me safely south of the Wall.”

“Father!” Bran gasped ahead of Catelyn, and her own heart pounded rapidly at the mention of Ned. 

The Imp turned to face Bran and said, “So it is true, the boy lives. I could scarce believe it. You Starks are hard to kill.”

At his words, Catelyn’s thoughts were filled with Bran’s broken body as they had carried him from the bottom of that blasted tower up to his room, and she was filled with an urge to order the guard closest to her to draw his sword and take the dwarf to the deepest, darkest dungeon Winterfell possessed until Ned was here to administer justice for what she knew in her heart the Lannisters had done to Bran.

“And you Lannisters had best remember that,” Robb said, breaking across her anger. “Hodor, bring Bran to me.”

Catelyn took the few moments she had to steady herself with a couple of deep breaths before Hodor’s movement revealed her presence. Now was not the time to be hasty. For all her suspicions, she needed to remember just how much they stood to lose should Robert’s wrath fall on them unprepared. 

“Lady Stark,” the dwarf said, pleasantly. “I was not sure if you were at Winterfell or not.”

Walking steadily over to the dais, Catelyn stopped on the right of Robb, her hand resting on his shoulder where he stood, having risen so Bran could be seated on the high seat. “Where else should I be, Lord Lannister, but here at my home?” 

“Indeed, my lady. I was just surprised to find myself greeted by your son rather yourself.”

“Robb is the Stark in Winterfell whilst his father is away, it is only right that he should welcome any visitors.”

The Imp’s eyes glinted mockingly at her description, and she felt Robb bristle under her hand, but Lannister forbore to say anything about just how cold Robb’s welcome had been. 

“You said you had business with Bran. Well, here he is, Lannister,” Robb said.

Catelyn’s eyes swivelled briefly to Robb’s at his words where he gave her a quick reassuring smile. Just what did Tyrion Lannister want with Bran? Her eyes hardened as they turned back towards the dwarf, but he did not notice her. Instead, he stared at Bran with his mismatched eyes. Studying him for any sign of anxiety at Bran’s continuing existence, all Catelyn could find was weighty assessment. 

“I am told you are quite the climber Bran,” Lannister said. “Tell me, how is it you happened to fall that day?”

“I _never_ ,” Bran insisted, in a similar refrain that he used every time someone would question him on just what had happened that day.

“The child does not remember anything of the fall, or the climb that came before it,” said Maester Luwin gently.

“Curious,” the dwarf said. 

Catelyn decided she had remained quiet for long enough. “Just what is it you want with Bran exactly, Lord Tyrion?”

He flashed her a brief easy smile and said, “With your leave, my lady, I have a gift for him.” His eyes turned once more to Bran and he asked, “Do you like to ride, boy?”

“Are you trying to mock him?” Catelyn asked angrily. “He has lost the use of his legs!” 

_Thanks to your house_ , she thought savagely, just about swallowing the unwise words before they left the tip of her tongue. 

“Nonsense,” said the Imp. “With the right horse and the right saddle, even a cripple can sit a horse.”

“I am _not_ a cripple!” Bran said, and Catelyn rested her hand on his shoulder as she saw the tears flood his eyes. 

“Then I am not a dwarf,” Lannister said with a twist of his mouth. “My father will rejoice to hear it.”

Behind them, Greyjoy laughed, and Catelyn’s mind whirled as the dwarf and Maester Luwin exchanged information, ending with the paper that Lannister had held being placed in the old Maester’s hand. 

_What was behind this supposed kindness?_ Catelyn could not help but ask herself. _Guilt at a botched assassination attempt?_ Either way, it would only raise suspicion should Catelyn object and refuse the saddle design. However, she would make sure every possible examination was done to ascertain the design was safe before she allowed Bran to use it.

“We thank you for your kindness, Lord Tyrion,” Catelyn said, the words somewhat sticking in her throat as she thought of just why Bran needed such a saddle design. 

“It is nothing, my lady. I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things,” the dwarf said, his hand over his heart and a grin on his face.

Catelyn did not trust herself to respond to that directly. Instead she smiled faintly. “We would be honoured if you, and, of course, the brothers of the Night’s Watch, would remain in Winterfell tonight.”

Lannister looked from her to Robb, who belatedly added his voice to his mother’s words, speaking of rooms prepared and hot water available. The speech was a little awkward and hesitant, one she recognised as Robb having learnt from Maester Luwin. 

“I would not wish to inconvenience you and your boy there,” the dwarf said. “I saw an inn outside your walls, in the winter town. I can easily find a bed there, and for a few coppers, I may even find a comely wench to warm the sheets for me.”

Ignoring his remark about wanton women, Catelyn was severely tempted to accept his words. However, her father had brought her up to extend hospitality to all passing lords, and whilst she might prefer him to choke on his food, she knew her duty as Lady Stark. “Nonsense, Lord Tyrion! It would be our pleasure to house you for the night.”

“Well, if you insist then it would be churlish of me to refuse.”

\-------------

Catelyn caressed the slanted black words that scrawled a little messily across the grubby parchment. It had been handed to her by one of the Stark men who had returned to Winterfell with Tyrion Lannister, and it was possibly her last link to Ned.

 _Stop it!_ She hissed at herself. _He is not dead. He_ isn’t _!_

Written in haste before he went off on the ranging with Benjen, Ned had begged her forgiveness for the difficulties of hosting the dwarf at this particular moment. There had, sensibly, been no mention of Lyanna, but she knew what the message read. Do not allow Lyanna to meet Tyrion Lannister. Keep her, Ser Arthur, and Jon out of sight. 

Of course, Ned did not know of her own suspicions about Lannister involvement in Bran’s fall, or anything of the catspaw who had been sent to kill their son. The raven she had sent to the Wall with this information had missed him, and her missive had been returned by Lord Mormont unopened with his letter regarding Ned’s disappearance. 

Catelyn rubbed at her forehead as the strain of the evening caught up with her. Hosting a feast for their visitors, trying her hardest to remain pleasant to the Lannister Imp, and praying that none of the Winterfell retainers slipped up and mentioned Lyanna had not been the easiest task.

Rickon had nearly caught her out, when he had whined about the direwolves not being allowed into the Hall with them. He had stuck out his bottom lip and said that he didn’t see why Jon should get to play with them all whilst he had to be here. Luckily, Robb had engaged Lannister in some small talk about the Wall before Rickon had finished his sentence, but it hadn’t stopped her palms from being uncomfortably clammy as she watched for any sign that the dwarf was interested in who Jon was.

“I think you must have picked that habit up from Ned. He always did that when anxious, even when we were little,” Lyanna said, standing in the doorway and eyeing her with concern.

“Yes, I probably have,” Catelyn replied with a smile as she removed her fingers from her forehead.

“Is this a bad time to come?” Lyanna asked.

“No, please come in and sit with me. I could do with the distraction.”

Lyanna moved into the room, taking the seat opposite Catelyn’s and glancing around. “This is the one room I’ve avoided since returning to Winterfell,” she said. 

Catelyn looked at her speculatively. 

“It was the last place I saw my father,” she continued with a sigh. “We argued once more about my betrothal to Robert. I said I did not want to marry, and I certainly did not want to marry a man with a bastard and reputation for bedding any wench in the local vicinity.”

Shifting in her chair, Catelyn tried not to look taken aback at the confidences being shared. Lyanna had been a pleasant companion, but they were still coming to understand each other, and whilst Lyanna had spoken a lot about her childhood here at Winterfell, she had said nothing regarding the circumstances that surrounded how she had left and very little of her life since then. 

“I had hoped he would change his mind. That he would break the betrothal with Robert and I wouldn’t have to leave Winterfell just yet, to mould myself into a meek Southron lady who was more concerned with the kitchen supplies than riding through woods and hunting animals to stock the larders,” Lyanna stopped and stared into the fire, whilst Catelyn strived to keep the disapproval from her face.

She must not have succeeded because Lyanna smiled as she raised apologetic eyes to her. “I am afraid I did not have such a good opinion of Southron ways then. Mayhap, I still don’t, having spent so many years among the Free Folk, although my ideas about what constitutes the south may well have changed. However, I know better than to think Southron ladies are meek having met you.”

Catelyn could not help the laugh that spilled from her lips. Lyanna had the charm of her older brother, Brandon, and seeing it again after all those years brought a smile to her face. 

“I also was not interested in duty, scandalous as I am sure that sounds to your Tully ears,” she said with a teasing glance. “But I also did not heed my own house words. Winter came for House Stark, and it proved just as devastating as a real winter rather than one of my own making.”

“I am sure that Rhaegar carries a greater share of the blame for what followed.”

Lyanna shrugged, as if the Targaryen prince was of no matter. “Mayhap, but it is I who shoulders the guilt for what happened to my father and Brandon. I may have been naïve and young, but I was also reckless and unthinking. It is something that I am burdened with until this day.”

Catelyn looked into the sad grey eyes that were so like her daughter’s, and her heart stirred to pity. Whilst she might not agree with Lyanna’s actions, she could see that her goodsister did not spare herself when attributing the blame. Catelyn had come to know well that special brand of guilt that was unique to the Starks, and whilst Lyanna might have the easy wit and smiles of her eldest brother, she also shared the brooding weight of the world that Ned would also carry on his own shoulders. 

“Then mayhap you have already paid the price and should let that burden go,” she said kindly. 

“But it won’t bring my father or brother back.”

“No, but then again nothing will do that,” Catelyn said pragmatically. “Besides, it was Aerys’ madness that killed them, not yours.”

Lyanna smiled softly and looked at Catelyn with admiring eyes. “I can only remember my mother in snatches of memory. She is the smell of dried lavender and the sound of the lullaby I sang to Jon every night, but I clearly remember how respected she was. Old Nan would tell me that she was a real Lady of Winterfell. This was inevitably in rebuke after I had been running wild through the godswood and had returned to the Keep looking like a hoyden,” Lyanna broke off and rose from the seat, her hand stretching out to cover Catelyn’s and she squeezed it gently. “I think she would have approved of you. For all that you were born a Tully, you, too, are a true Lady of Winterfell, and I am glad that Ned has had you by his side.”

Giving Catelyn’s hand one final pat, Lyanna turned and made her way to the door, leaving Catelyn to mull over the information she had shared.

\----------

With the departure of the dwarf and the men of the Night’s Watch, Winterfell returned to its usual day-to-day running. Catelyn counted the depleted stocks that the royal visit had left, sat with Sansa and a reluctant Arya to mend the never ending pile of linens and sheets, watched as Bran’s special saddle was made and checked, not only by the saddler, but also by Robb before Bran was even allowed near it, and advised her eldest son when needed. However, the ache of Ned’s absence never left her.

But worry over Ned was not the cause of her main anxiety today. Instead, it was Bran who occupied that place. Robb had taken him out to the Wolfswood to test out his riding capabilities in a more challenging environment. Catelyn had been of a mind to argue that it was too soon, that Bran had only trotted around the courtyard and was not ready for a big expedition, but Bran’s excited face had her swallowing her words. No amount of preparation would truly make her ready to watch Bran ride out, but she could not keep him close to her forever. He also needed to see that he could function perfectly well, even if he was now crippled. 

Lyanna had stood with her, her arm linked through Catelyn’s in a show of unspoken support, as the retinue had left the Hunter’s Gate. Bran had complained at the number of people, wanting to just ride out with Robb, and she had smiled at Robb’s firm refusal. Her oldest boy was rapidly becoming a man, growing into his duties as the Stark in Winterfell so naturally that it brought the tears to Catelyn’s eyes.

_You will be so proud of him, Ned, when you come home_ , she said to herself, refusing to allow the kernel of doubt to grow that Ned might not return. 

Now, Catelyn busied herself in the Glass Gardens, overseeing the resowing of the herb garden, which had been decimated by the endless feasts of the royal visit. She kept an anxious ear out for the blow of the horns to announce Robb and Bran’s return.

It was a few hours later when Catelyn heard them. She wiped her hands on the pinafore that covered her gown before removing it and straightening her hair and rushing out to the courtyard that the Hunter’s Gate opened onto. 

But no one was there. Instead, to the north of her, Catelyn could hear the bustle of men and hooves filtering into Winterfell. Her heart stopped for a moment and she wheezed as she tried to catch her breath, the blood pounding through her ears. 

Could it be _Ned_ that the horns had blown for? There had only been one long call, and she had assumed that it was for Robb’s return, but Ned was the true Lord of Winterfell and only one blow would sound out for him, too. 

Picking her skirts up, she ran, retracing her footsteps back through the godswood, towards the Glass Gardens, swerving to the east just before she reached the Gardens, and pelting out the arch that led to the North Gate. 

A rag-tag line of men in threadbare furs met her eyes. Most were on foot as the few horses returning had wounded men strapped to them. With anxious eyes, she swept quickly over the battered men, stopping here and there at the sight of a bushy brown beard streaked with grey. But she could not single out Ned. 

The North Gate was little used, and the courtyard it opened onto was soon choked with tightly pressed bodies that reeked of sweat and blood. But before it grew too chaotic, Vayon Poole and an army of manservants had joined her in the courtyard and were directing men and baggage through various passages. Soon the crowd of people started to disperse, allowing Catelyn to look once more for Ned. 

Finally, she caught sight of him, one arm slung over the shoulder of Ser Arthur, who Catelyn had not seen arrive. Her initial cry of joy at seeing her husband alive and home fell quickly silent as she took in his condition. He was hobbling badly on one leg, and Catelyn swallowed down the sob that sought to escape her throat and dashed over, grabbing his other arm and slinging it over her own shoulder.

“Send out riders for Maester Luwin,” she called over to Vayon, who nodded curtly and hurried off to the stables. 

“Oh gods, Ned,” she said. “What happened?”

“One of Old Nan’s horror stories, Cat,” he whispered before his head lolled and wobbled for a moment before coming to a rest on Ser Arthur’s shoulder.

Catelyn met the sombre purple eyes of Ser Arthur before they hurried to lay Ned in her bedchamber.


	10. Ned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between chapters. My beta was busy and I had a dilemma about where to take the story next, which made me stall with this chapter, and then the holidays hit and I lost all time to work on editing this between the demands of two young children. 
> 
> Many thanks as always to DKNC for betaing this chapter for me and for all of you for waiting so patiently for this next chapter.

A strangled scream was all Ned managed as the flames licked around his legs, causing pain to shoot up his left leg. Outside the heat and haze, Ned could see Benjen staring at him mournfully, and all he could think was that he had failed and now he would never see his family again. 

Ned jolted awake sweating under the pile of bear furs that covered him. _It was a dream, just a dream_ , he told himself, but as he gazed blankly at the grey stone walls, he struggled to remember where he was for a brief moment before it all flooded back. 

He had made it back to Winterfell and his family. He had not perished beyond the Wall. 

Shoving the furs off his overheated body, Ned let the cool air wash over him, enjoying the sensation as he shivered. Was it only three weeks ago that he had thought he would never be warm again? Oh how he had longed for Catelyn’s over warm chambers then, and her arms. 

Putting his head in his hands as he sat on the edge of the bed, Ned thanked the gods for bringing him home from the hell that lurked north of the Wall. It was not without a cost though, and he thought about the men who would never return to Winterfell, their bodies having been burnt in the snows of the Haunted Forest. 

Benjen, too, had lost over half his men although they had both made it back alive, the surprise clear on Lord Commander Mormont’s face as they had traipsed through the tunnel that ran under the Wall, grateful to have its immense height and girth between them and the unnatural monsters that had stalked them on the other side. 

The chamber door swung open, Catelyn humming softly to herself as she entered, a steaming bowl in her hands and linen clothes hanging over her left arm. The air of the room was immediately infused with the comforting smell of camomile and lavender. 

He had vague memories of his arrival at Winterfell, of the noise and bustle of the men as they entered through the smaller North Gate, keen to get behind the walls of the immense castle as if the Others were behind them still. He had waited until every single one of his remaining men had made it through the gate before entering himself, where he had almost collapsed into the arms of a vaguely familiar man. 

But it was the joy he’d felt at laying eyes on Catelyn that remained with him. In his last memory of his wife, she had been catatonic with grief, refusing to move from Bran’s bedside and angry with him for thinking of leaving for the Wall at that moment when their son needed him. It had torn at Ned’s heart to leave, but Benjen had needed to return to the Night’s Watch, and it was Ned’s duty as Warden of the North to seek out the truth behind the rumours of the white walkers’ return. It had been a good thing, too, that he had gone to the Wall, otherwise Benjen and all of his men would have been lost on that ranging. 

Ned shook his head as if to banish the very thought of his only remaining brother perishing in such a manner. The movement drew his wife’s attention.

Memories of dazed and confused awakenings flooded into Ned’s mind. Catelyn had been by his side, he knew that much. Her tears and laughter had remained with him, even as he’d flitted in and out of consciousness, mouthing her name as she had flung her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He had known that he was home then as he’d breathed in the sweet smell of her hair and tried to lift an arm to stroke down its length.

“Ned!” Catelyn exclaimed, hurrying to put the bowl down, before she turned her focus to him. She put her hands on his shoulder and gently pushed him back against the pillows. “You should not be sitting up, my love, you need to rest.” 

“I was too hot,” he protested as she began to pile the furs back over him, and she smiled at that. Her smile did more to banish the remnants of his evil dream and worse memories, and he allowed himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of looking at her. He wasn’t entirely certain how long he’d lain here, but he knew she had been here throughout most of it and that he had been glad of it. 

“No doubt you were,” she said, relenting and keeping just the one fur over him. “However, you do need to keep that leg elevated, Maester Luwin’s orders.” 

He swallowed back his objection as she propped a pillow under his leg. At times over the last two turns of the moon, he had doubted if he would ever experience Catelyn fussing over him again. As she hovered over him now, though, he noted the little lines of worry and exhaustion on his wife’s face in spite of her obvious relief at seeing him fully awake. 

“I promise to be perfectly still, if you would come and sit next to me, Cat,” he said, needing to hold her in his arms and stroke his hand down her hair, needing to assure both of them that all was well now.   

Catelyn stopped her bustling about and smiled softly at that, crawling up onto the bed andlying down into his open arms. “Oh Ned!” she said as she buried her head into his chest. 

“Bran?” he asked. 

She hesitated, keeping her face pressed tightly against him. 

“I need to hear it, Cat,” he encouraged her softly. “You must tell me.” 

“He is awake and he will be fine, but he will never walk again, Ned. Our baby boy will never run or climb or jump again,” Catelyn said thickly. 

Ned’s hand stopped stroking Catelyn’s braid as he digested the news. Bran, who had wanted nothing more than to be a knight, would never walk again. His head reeled from the information. He found the tears springing to his eyes, and he swallowed down the sobs that coated his throat. “Did he say how he came to fall?” 

Catelyn sat up, any happiness that had previously rested in her face at his return had gone. “It was not an accident, Ned,” she said seriously. “He swears he did not fall, and I think he was pushed.” 

A shiver passed down his spine at his lady’s words. “Pushed?” 

Catelyn nodded. “And that is not all,” she said, turning her hand palms up and showing him the angry red scars that puckered her smooth skin. 

“Cat?” he asked, grabbing her hand and caressing it with his fingers. “What happened?” 

“A catspaw was hiding out in Winterfell, Ned. He set the library tower on fire and whilst Robb was directing the men to put it out, came to Bran’s room. It was only because I was there that Bran did not have his throat slit. I put my hands around the blade to hinder him. They hired an assassin, Ned!” Catelyn said, the tears rolling freely down her face. 

Ned froze, struggling to comprehend all that Catelyn had told him. A catspaw had been inside Winterfell, inside _his_ castle, and with the intention to _murder_ his son? Red hot rage consumed him at the very thought. The only reason why this thug had not succeeded was because of Catelyn, because her hands had stopped him from carrying out his act and now bore the scars. He should have been here, and it should have been his hands that had been maimed to save their son, not his lady wife’s. 

“And I left you! I went off into the wilderness beyond the Wall and left you to face _this_!” he said, anger colouring his tone. He swung his legs off the bed and went to stand, needing the physical outlet that pacing around the bedchamber would bring. However, as he rose, his leg buckled under the strain and he let out a cry of pain, falling back onto the bed, both hands clutching at his knee. 

Sitting on her knees, Catelyn cradled his face in both her hands. “You could not have known, my love. Neither of us could have known.” 

Hating himself despite her words, Ned struggled to move past his anger, at the very real sense of failure he felt in not being there to protect his family. “I failed you, Cat,” he said, pain causing his voice to break.

Pushing him back down, she slid off the bed and tenderly swung each leg back up onto the bed, propping the pillows once more under his wounded knee. She sat to his side, his hand grasped firmly between hers, “Hush now, Ned, you could not have known, and despite my anger at the time, you _are_ warden of the North, and you needed to go with Benjen.”

Breathing deeply, Ned focused on the warm hold Catelyn’s hand had on his and not on the puckered ridge of scar tissue he could feel that formed its way down her palm. His lady was right.  She was nearly always right. He could not have known; nor could he ignore the reports from the North, but the guilt of leaving her to deal with this did not go away. 

“Where is the scum?” he asked, desperate for a way in which he could prove of use. “Has he been interrogated?” 

“He’s dead. Bran’s wolf came and ripped out his throat out,” she said before laughing shakily. “I have never been as glad as I was at that moment for those wolves.” 

“The wolf came?” Ned asked, puzzled. 

Nodding her head, Catelyn smiled and said. “I cannot even begin to understand, but those wolves have come to our children for a reason, Ned. There is a bond between them that I cannot explain, but it is important. I know that.” 

“Important? For what?” he asked. 

“I don’t know, my love, but for something.” 

Ned’s thoughts travelled back to the nightmare that existed on the other side of the Wall. First he had seen and fought against undead wights and Others, and now his children had an inexplicable relationship with live representations of their house sigil, whom had not been sighted for over three hundred years south of the Wall.  

Shaking away the uneasy premonition that they were on the cusp of something powerful and dreadful, Ned clung to something that was more easily understood. “You said that _they_ sent a catspaw, Cat. Who are they?” 

His lady looked him straight in the eye and said, “House Lannister.” 

“The Lannisters!” he exclaimed. 

“It was them, Ned. The blade that the catspaw had was Valyrian steel and you cannot think Robert would wish to kill Bran, for all his anger towards you.” 

“No, Robert would not do that, would not even think of that,” Ned agreed, but the thought of the two little Targaryen babies flashed through his mind. They had been wrapped in Lannister red and laid at Robert’s feet as if they were a gift. The gruesome sight had never left him, neither had his friend’s satisfaction at their fate. 

It still did not mean he would seek to murder Bran. 

A Lannister might, but why? 

“Has Bran said anything?” he asked. 

Catelyn shook her head. “He cannot remember even climbing up the tower, let alone anything that might cause someone to push him or want him dead. But I cannot help but think on that letter that Lysa sent, Ned. She accused the Lannisters of murdering Jon Arryn.” 

The events in the Haunted Forest had made Ned forget Lysa’s message to her sister. What did it all mean? Should he have accepted Robert’s offer and become Hand of the King? He was in no position far away in the North to seek the truth for either his son or his old mentor. 

“I should have gone to King’s Landing,” he muttered. “I can do nothing from here.” 

“You could not ignore the reports north of the Wall, either, Ned.” 

The frustration ate at him. No-one knew better than he how true Catelyn’s words were. He was Warden of the North and the return of the Others did not just affect the Night’s Watch but the North, too. Once he and Benjen had returned, Jeor Mormont had been obviously grateful that Ned had not gone South. He was brutally honest about just how poorly manned and equipped the Wall was, but the desire to seek justice for his son and his family tore at him. 

“Robb could have sent help to the Night’s Watch,” Ned suggested. 

“Robb has done a very good job at running Winterfell whilst I was incapacitated and you were away, but he is naught but a boy for all that he wears live steel at his hip.” 

“He wears a real sword?” 

Catelyn laughed softly. “Oh yes! Our boy is determined to be seen as a man now, and he wears the responsibility well. You would be proud of him, Ned.” 

“You raised him well, Cat.” 

“ _We_ raised him well! He was all Stark when he hosted Tyrion Lannister in the Great Hall and would not brook the Imp calling him a boy.” 

“The Others take the dwarf,” Ned said, crossly. “I was sorry to drop that in your lap, Cat. Doubly so now you have told me about the catspaw.” 

“You could not have known, my love.” 

Ned took a deep breath, ready to face the one subject he had avoided since Catelyn had come into the room. He was still unsure of how he felt. “And Lyanna?” 

“She’s here, with her son and Ser Arthur.” 

The image of the knight who had helped him in the courtyard came flooding back to Ned. “Ser Arthur Dayne,” he murmured. “I knew he looked familiar. So he has stayed rather than gone back to Dorne?” 

“Yes, and he has taken over the training yard with Ser Rodrik’s permission. He has Robb and Jon training hard and even has little Rickon learning basic movements.” 

Ned smiled at the thought of his youngest son. “Aye, well Rickon is old enough to start.” 

“Rickon certainly agrees. Indeed, he clamours to be allowed to hold Dawn when either Robb or Jon are allowed to spar with it as a reward for being particularly well behaved. The tantrum he throws when denied is something to watch. I believe he told Ser Arthur that you would let him hold Ice when you returned, which was better than Dawn, anyway.” 

Ned threw his head back and laughed at the thought. “That one has the wolf’s blood running strong through him.” 

Catelyn smiled. “He does indeed.” 

“And Lyanna has settled in as well?” Ned asked, the question strange on his tongue. Lyanna had spent all of her childhood at Winterfell, unlike himself. 

“She is happy to be home, Ned, and Winterfell is happy to have her return.” 

“Aye, well, she always did have charm.” 

“Yes, she is charming, it is true, but more than that, she has gift of inspiring loyalty just like you.” 

Ned startled at Catelyn’s description. He had never truly felt at ease in his role as Lord of Winterfell. This was meant to have been his brother’s, just as Catelyn was, something that he had not forgotten despite the years he had now held the title of Lord Stark. 

“Of course, Arya dogs her footsteps,” Catelyn said. “Especially since Jon told her that Lyanna was a spearwife.” 

“Spearwife?” Ned asked, confused. 

“I believe the Wildlings use the term to describe a female warrior.” 

Memories of the Knight of the Laughing Tree filled Ned’s mind and he might have found the thought amusing if anyone other than Arya was captivated. 

As if reading his mind, Catelyn said, “No need to worry, Ned. Lyanna does not encourage Arya to run off to join the nearest Wildling village. Just as she does not encourage Sansa to flee South to join her prince. If anything, she is full of just how much she missed Winterfell and her family, which is good for both girls to hear.” 

“Sansa is still upset?” Ned asked, wondering just how much damage had been done to his daughter with the betrothal to Joffrey Baratheon. Ned still was not happy about the idea. 

“Yes, but you must not think she is forever whining on about King’s Landing. She was a good girl when I was indisposed and afterwards. Both girls were.” 

Ned kissed her cheek. “I am glad to hear it, my love.” 

He leaned back against the pillows, more tired that he wanted to admit after the gruelling march back to Winterfell and the all the news Catelyn had shared with him. As if sensing his weariness, Catelyn curled back up into his side. “Just relax for this morning, Ned. Winterfell can wait for a few more hours.” 

Ned closed his eyes and rested his cheek on top of her hair, feeling at peace for the first time since Robert had descended on Winterfell with his court.

 

\--------------

 

The morning was all that Ned had to recuperate further. After the remains of his midday meal had been cleaned away, his children descended on him, wolves and all, but there was nothing but joy in the reunion. 

All too soon, Catelyn had ushered them away, all but Robb, who stood taller than Ned remembered in his boiled leather with a sword at his side. 

“Will you help me to the godswood, my son?” Ned asked. “My leg is not quite healed enough for me to make the journey without assistance.” 

“Of course, Father.” 

The traversed the way in silence, Ned’s arm slung around Robb’s neck with Grey Wind on Ned’s other side. “In case you need to lean on him to balance,” Robb had said when Ned had raised his eyebrows at the arrangement. 

Once his prayersof gratitude for his safe return had finished and Ned was perched on his root under the heart tree, he looked at his son and said, “I am proud of you, my boy. Your lady mother and Maester Luwin both tell me how well you ruled Winterfell during my prolonged absence." 

The telltale colour crept up under Robb’s Tully skin as he straightened his back and shoulders at the compliment. The boy had grown during his absence and whilst Ned was impressed at his son’s handling of his responsibilities, he longed for the days when Robb was smaller. His children were growing so fast. 

_They need to_ , Ned said to himself as he thought of what lurked on the other side of the Wall. _For winter is coming._  

“You did well with Tyrion Lannister, also. That was a tricky situation.” 

Robb’s eyes grew stormy at the mention of the dwarf. “We must seek justice for Bran, Father, and for Mother, also. She nearly died at the hands of the catspaw, too.” 

The thought of what his family had faced in his absence at him once more. A reckless longing to fly south and seek out Robert for justice flashed through his thought for one insane moment. 

“I know,” Ned said. “But we must tread carefully. The King is none too happy with me at the moment and it would be foolish for me to race down to King’s Landing and claim that House Lannister attempted to murder my son. The Queen is a Lannister and she would vociferously deny any such accusations.” 

The anger in Robb’s face did not lessen at Ned’s words, but his son had to learn that not everything could be solved easily or quickly. 

Ned sighed and rubbed his brow as he contemplated the mess that grown up around Robert’s visit. “There is also the question of the Others.” 

“They exist then? Theon scorned Jon’s claims of their existence and said that he had no excuse for believing in such tales at the age of fifteen.” 

“Theon might want to tell that to my leg as it was an Other’s blade that caused this injury.” 

Robb’s eyes grew round and he looked at his father with awe. “You fought them?” 

“Aye, and they are not easy to kill. It was Ice that saved the ranging from being lost forever.” 

“Ice?” 

“Valyrian steel. The magic worked into the blade will pierce them where regular steel just melts away.” 

Robb fingered the hilt of his sword, confusion written over his face. Ned decided not to burden his oldest boy with too much straight away. There was a time and place and this was not it. 

“Now, your mother tells me that you have been training with Ser Arthur?” 

“Yes, Father, with Ser Rodrik’s blessing of course. I do not wish for you to think that I have discarded Winterfell’s Maester of Arms.” 

Ned smiled at that, the burgeoning signs of Robb’s manhood dissolving in a desire to make sure he had not done wrong. “I am pleased that you considered Ser Rodrik’s feelings, Robb. As Lord of Winterfell one day, you will need to have loyal men around you and thinking about how your actions affect others is a very good start to ensuring that you have this.” 

“Of course, Father.” 

“Training under Ser Arthur is a good thing, also. He was the finest swordsman in the land when I was your age.” 

“You should see him, Father,” Robb said excitedly. “He will spar against two men at once and no-one yet has gotten the better of him.” 

“The years, it seem, have not dented his skill,” Ned said, amused at Robb’s enthusiastic tone. 

“I think him better than the Kingslayer, Father.” 

_In honour and in skill,_ Ned thought to himself. 

“Aye, the Kingsguard under Ser Gerold Hightower was something to behold. They truly did possess the finest swords in the land. I hear you have also held the famed Dayne sword, Dawn,” Ned said, enjoying Robb’s eagerness. It was reminiscent of how excitable Robb could be a as a child, when he would be delighted at the prospect of an afternoon in the Winter Town with his father. 

“You should see it, Father!” Robb exclaimed, his eyes shining with pleasure. “Its blade is milky white and the balance is a dream.” 

“Aye, I am sure it is. It wasn’t too long to hold?” 

“No, Father,” Robb said proudly. “Ser Arthur himself said he was impressed at long I managed to grasp it. I bet if Uncle Benjen were to return to Winterfell soon, I would be taller than Ice now.” 

“No need to wait for Benjen, Robb. Tomorrow you can start to learn how to wield Ice. Fighting with a greatsword is a very different to that of a longsword and it’s time you began to practice. Ice will one day be yours and you must learn how to use it.” 

For a moment, Robb was too overwhelmed to speak, and Ned hid the smile that came to his face. For all his newfound gravity, Robb was not above all-consuming anticipation. 

At first, Ned thought the excited yips from Grey Wind were due to Robb’s barely contained exhilaration, but he bounded away from Robb into the nearest trees, running out a moment later with an all-white direwolf Ned had never seen before on his heels. 

Following not far behind was a boy who could only be Lyanna’s lad. He stopped when he caught sight of Ned and Robb, hastily giving a bowed head. “I am sorry to interrupt, my lord,” he said stiffly, as if unused to the words. “I was not aware anyone accompanied Robb.” 

“This is Jon, Father, Lyanna’s son,” Robb said unnecessarily. 

“Come here, lad, and let me look at you,” Ned said, beckoning him over with a smile. 

Standing next to Robb, it could be seen that he was a shade taller and leaner, too. He held nothing of the Daynes in his face, though. He was all Stark with his long face, grey eyes, and brown hair. 

“There is no need to ask why you have a direwolf,” Ned said in a rare teasing voice, bending down to pet the white direwolf currently sniffing at his legs curiously. He wondered how right Catelyn had been regarding the bond their children shared with their wolves and if that bond encompassed Lyanna’s son. By the way Jon was staring at him with the same curiosity outwardly exhibited by his wolf, Ned thought that it must. 

However, there was a wariness in the boy’s eyes that cut Ned to the heart. It reminded him so strongly of the look in Lyanna’s eyes when she had approached him about her betrothal to Robert and spoken to him of her misgivings. He had tried to reassure her and offer her words praising Robert, but he had wondered for years after she had disappeared if he should have approached that conversation differently. Mayhap, if she had someone to confront their father with her then events could have been different. 

He shook his head a little to rid himself of the thoughts. It did no good to dwell on this as nothing could be changed now. 

“You have the Stark look,” Ned said, unexpected affection rushing through him at the nearness of this previously unknown nephew. 

_A nephew_ , Ned thought, the word having so much more weight now he was face to face with the boy rather than being told about him from hundreds of miles away. _I never thought to be an uncle_. That hope had died when Benjen had joined the Night’s Watch. 

“And you are settling into Winterfell?” Ned asked. 

“Yes, sir,” Jon said before he looked down at his feet, reminiscent of the way Bran would when he lied. Glancing over at his eldest son, Ned detected a brief look of guilt. So the boy had experienced problems, which was not unexpected. From what Ned had seen of life beyond the Wall, Winterfell had probably come as a shock. 

“Happy to hear it,” Ned said, not wanting to drew attention to any awkwardness that might still exist. “Now, if you boys could help me back to the Great Keep, my lady wife will be searching for me as I believe it is probably time for Maester Luwin to force some draught or other on me.” 

His words cut the tension, and both boys laughed before Robb took up his previous position, his arm steadying Ned around his waist. Jon hovered briefly before coming to stand on Ned’s left and giving additional support.

 

\------------

 

However, it was not Catelyn who was waiting in his chambers with a disgusting looking vial of some concoction in her hand but Lyanna. Ned had never been so grateful for the two strong boys who stood either side of him as he reeled slightly at the sight of his sister, older than when he had last seen her but remarkably unchanged. 

His shock was mirrored in Lyanna’s eyes, and her face grew white as her gaze flicked rapidly between him and Jon. Catelyn had said Jon looked remarkably like him and it must be disconcerting for Lyanna to see the younger version of him that she was used to in her son whilst he now stood there with greying hair and a greying beard. 

“Ned,” she whispered, her hand reaching out towards him for a moment before it fluttered back to her side as if she were uncertain of whether her touch would be welcome. Not that Ned was sure himself. 

He found that his reply stuck in his throat. He could do nothing but stare at the sister he had thought dead for many a year, whilst the words crowded his tongue but refused to leave. Disappointment flashed in Lyanna’s eyes at his silence and she turned to her gaze to Robb and Jon. 

“Where have the pair of you been? Arthur and Ser Rodrik have both been looking for you. You were meant to have been in the training yard twenty minutes ago!” 

“It was my fault, Lyanna. Robb was with me in the godswood where I made Jon’s acquaintance,” Ned said. “Thank you for escorting me back to my chambers, lads, but go and find Ser Arthur and Ser Rodrik now.” 

Robb gave a nod and with only a quick glance between Ned and Lyanna, disappeared out of the door. However, Jon remained behind, his eyes focused on his mother before she gave him a reassuring smile and he followed after his cousin. 

Silence fell between them, and Ned wondered how it was he could form words that were meaningless regarding training but was unable to welcome his sister home and take her in his arms. His frustration at his muteness grew, but he could do nothing but stare at Lyanna. 

“Here,” she finally said, thrusting the vial out towards him. “Cat would never forgive me if I forgot to make you take this.” 

The use of his wife’s pet name startled him into action, he took the vial from her and asked, “Cat?” before he chucked the revolting contents down his throat, briefly closing his eyes as the foul potion burned its way down to his stomach. 

“Do not ask me what was in that, you do not wish to know,” Lyanna said, a hint of amusement at his disgusted face in her voice. “Aye, your lady wife asked me to call her Cat.” 

Only family ever called Catelyn by that name, and it warmed him that Lyanna and his wife had developed some kind of bond whilst he had been fighting his way back home. 

“She belongs here,” Lyanna said. “She makes a good Lady of Winterfell for all her Southron blood.” 

“I know,” Ned said. 

Lyanna looked at him for a long while before she said, “Is that all you can say, Ned? I hadn’t counted on ever finding someone who would make my Jon look loquacious.” 

She turned away from him and walked over to the window, bracing her hands on the sill and staring out, but not before Ned had seen how her face had fallen. 

Not for the first time he wished that Brandon were here. He was always the one to fill a room with words and laughter. No doubt he would have caught Lyanna up in a bear hug and whirled her around the room, all the while teasing her for having a son taller than she was. He would not stand there awkward and mute as Ned currently was. 

“It’s good to have you home,” Ned said finally, the words coming out stiff and awkward, and making him wince. 

Lyanna turned back to face him, her arms folded defensively across her chest. “Your welcome has been about as warm as the Haunted Forest in the dead of winter,” she said. 

Ned could do nothing but gaze at her, willing her to believe that he was happy to see her, but had trouble putting it into words. He had never been very good at this, usually leaving the small pleasantries to Catelyn who imbued her words with all the southern warmth of her homeland. 

“Are you not even going to ask me why?” Lyanna asked, obviously irritated at his continuing silence. 

He had forgotten just how confrontational Lyanna could be. She had been the least patient of them all, demanding answers and forcing arguments if her siblings’ behaviour was unsatisfactory for her. 

“Why you ran with Rhaegar or why you did not even bother to let me know you were alive all these years?” Ned asked, stung by her attitude. 

“Something, Ned, something other than all this grim disapproval!” 

Denied the outlet of being able to pace thanks to his leg, Ned’s Stark temper erupted as all the years of frustration at being helpless whilst Lyanna disappeared and the Mad King roasted his father in his armour and strangled Brandon to death boiled up inside him. “I am not sure you want to hear what I think of your actions, Lyanna. You displayed all the maturity of spoilt child in your actions and you brought disaster down onto this family.” 

His sister had never been one to hold back, and time had apparently not taught her this skill as her temper got also got the better of her. “That is fine coming from you. What could you know about the situation I was put in? I told both you and Father that I did not want a betrothal to Robert, but all he saw were his precious links to the other High Houses, and all you saw was the friend who was more like a brother. No one cared for my feelings regarding the match. I was to be shipped off to Storm’s End and sold into marriage to appease Father’s ambitions.” 

Ned scoffed. “Sold into marriage? You know nothing if you think a betrothal to Robert was being sold. What did you think, Lyanna? That you would be able to run wild for your whole life? You got away with it at Harrenhal, but did you think about what it would have meant to Father or our House had you been discovered? Your reputation would have been ruined!” 

“Mayhap I should have let Rhaegar drag me back to the king. At least then Robert would have broken that ridiculous betrothal. He would not have stood by me because that is the type of man he is! Your precious Robert was no more in love with me than he was the whore he fathered his first bastard on, and he would have shown me the same respect that he shows his current wife,” she shouted back at him. 

“You are hardly the first person to have an arranged marriage. It is how it works. I had to do my duty by our house when I stepped in and honoured our father’s arrangement with House Tully. I saw Cat for the first time when she walked into the sept to wed me. Do you think Cat raged and railed and refused?” 

“I am not Cat, Ned. I am not one to do my duty silently and the make the best of the situation.” 

“And what exactly was it that Rhaegar offered you, other than a war that killed him and half your family?” 

“Freedom,” she whispered, a tear trickling silently down her cheek. 

That tear stopped the bitter retort he had been about to make. Lyanna never cried, no matter what scrape she had gotten into as a child and the wrath she would face as a consequence. She had always met her punishment head on, her chin jutting out defiantly. The tear had the benefit of diffusing Ned’s anger. “Gods, Lyanna, don’t cry.” 

Ned moved forward to tug her into a hug, but forgot the state of his leg and had to catch himself on the back of a chair when his knee buckled. “The Others take this blasted leg!” 

“It looks like they already tried,” Lyanna said with a flash of wit that was so reminiscent of their childhood that he caught his breath before he broke out into a laugh. 

Lyanna stared at him for a brief moment, before the fire in her eyes turned to amusement and she joined in. It had always been like that between the four of them. His lord father would say that they were a pack of rowdy, noisome wolf cubs, but that they were a pack. _A pack,_ Lord Rickard would say, _may well argue amongst themselves, but will always stand together when the time calls for it._ And argue they had. Once roused, their anger would lead to hurtful words, but once dispersed, the very natural affection they felt would resurface easily. 

Ned had not realised until this moment just how much he had missed that connection. Whilst he had always been more sombre than his brothers and sister, the war and loss of so much had made him doubly so. Benjen, too, had lost the natural vivacity that had characterised him as a child, and when they had been together the laughter had been rare. 

“Here,” Lyanna said. “Let me help you to your chair.” 

He waved her away. “It is no matter. I can get there myself.” 

“Don’t be so stubborn, Ned! Besides, if that leg gets any worse then Cat will never forgive me, and I fear your wife more than you right at this moment. She has a cutting way with words.” 

Ned smiled affectionately and said, “Aye, she does.” 

“It would not have been like that for me,” Lyanna said quietly. “There would not have been love between Robert and I, Ned. He would have grown tired of my headstrong nature and impatient with my inability to conform.” 

Ned recognised the truth in her words. Robert had fallen in love with Lyanna’s beauty, but he did not know the steel behind. Ned was not even sure if Lyanna would have been able to turn a blind eye to Robert’s infidelities the way Queen Cersei had at Winterfell. 

“And Rhaegar didn’t?” 

Lyanna shrugged. “I did not know Rhaegar for long enough to find out.” 

“Did you at least love him?” Ned asked.  

_At least tell me that_ , he thought. _Please tell me that you were madly in love and that all the war and death had been worth it._

Almost as if sensing his need to hear that she had, Lyanna looked away from him, guilt making her shoulders hunch over defensively. “I will not lie to you, Ned. No, I did not love him. I think I was infatuated at first, when we met at Harrenhal. He admired me for being the Knight of the Laughing Tree and he kept my secret. He moved me to tears with his songs, and I was flattered by all the attention. All the maids sighed over him and said how lucky Princess Elia was. Then when he crowned me the Queen of Love and Beauty, I was giddy. Some of the other ladies had been keen to let me know that I was naught but a rough girl from the North, and this was a victory over their sneering. The silver prince had crowned me, not any of them.” 

Lyanna paused for a moment, resting her brow against the mantelpiece above the hearth.  “Afterwards, we kept up a correspondence and when in desperation at my future, I told him I contemplated running, he said he would fetch me. I was but fifteen, Ned, the same age as Jon and Robb are now. I thought I would have the freedom I desperately wanted, but all I got was a tower in the middle of Dorne and a Kingsguard to keep me there.” 

He flinched at her words, not wanting to hear this. All the bloodshed could have been more palatable had it been in the cause of love, but the loss of so much of his family and the turmoil the country had gone through had all been for an infatuation. It was a bitter pill to swallow. 

“But he loved you?” 

“I do not think so,” Lyanna said quietly. 

“Then for the gods’ sake why?” he burst out. 

“There was a prophecy and he needed a third child. Elia could not have any more children,” Lyanna said, looking him straight in the eyes, hers pleading with his to understand. 

The penny dropped in Ned’s head, and he brushed over the incomprehensible actions of Rhaegar as he stared at his sister in horror, realisation warring with a real need to cling to the illusion that Lyanna had presented to the world. He thought back to his meeting the boy earlier with his lean frame and melancholic eyes. Then Jon’s image was replaced with two small pitiful little corpses, wrapped in red cloaks that could not disguise the blood that seeped from them over the stones of the throne room. 

“He’s Rhaegar’s,” Ned whispered. 

With his thoughts taken up with other issues, Ned had not thought about the significance of Jon being of an age with Robb. Of how or when Lyanna’s babe had been conceived. 

Lyanna nodded. Her face was deathly pale with the skin stretched taunt over her bones. “This is why I had to disappear, Ned. I wanted nothing more than to come back to Winterfell, than to be with you and Benjen, especially once I learnt about Father and Brandon, but I could not return, not with Jon.” 

Ned found it hard to do anything but stare at Lyanna, his mind whirling as the truth of Lyanna’s words hit home. Did this make Jon Rhaegar’s heir? Or was the boy a bastard in birth as well as name? 

“But he is a bastard?” He asked. 

Lyanna shook her head, her eyes wide in her bone-white face. “We married,” she whispered. “In the manner of the old gods on the Isle of Faces. He is Rhaegar’s true-born son.” 

He drew back, instinctively recoiling at the very thought of what Jon was. There were the two Targaryens roaming around Essos, Aerys’ younger children, and he had heard that the boy, Viserys, still claimed the throne as his right, seeking to raise people to fight under his banner and reclaim all that his father had lost. He was scorned as the Beggar King, reliant on hand-outs and hospitality of those sympathetic to the Targaryen cause. But this claim was nothing compared to Jon’s if the marriage was accepted. 

“Gods, Lyanna,” he finally choked out. 

“You have to keep it a secret, Ned! No one can know. Promise me that, Ned. Not even Cat. Promise me, Ned!” she said, urgency making her voice harsh. 

He stood and cursed as his knee throbbed at the action. He wanted nothing more than to walk to the window and throw it open, allowing the cold air to cool his head. Instead, he had to settle with sitting once more and rubbing his brow. “I cannot keep this from Cat, Lyanna. From everyone else I will, but not my wife.” 

“You cannot! It is too dangerous. The less people know, the better,” she said mulishly. 

“You think Cat would run to the King and tell him? That she would sell out my own blood?” 

“No, of course, but do you really want her to be in possession of such knowledge? If Robert were to find out…” 

This made Ned anxious. It was impossible for him not think about what could happen if Jon’s lineage was exposed. There was no doubt Catelyn would be safer not knowing, but the thought of keeping such a large secret from her tore at him. No doubt, had Lyanna come home after the war, he would have had no problem keeping such a thing from his new wife, but now there was too much love and trust between them for him to even contemplate such a thing. 

“I will not keep this from her. This affects her as well and she has the right to know.” 

 Lyanna looked at him as if assessing how stubborn he would be about this issue. Whatever she saw on his face obviously convinced her that he would not budge. She sighed and said, “If you must, Ned.” 

He nodded. “Who else knows?” 

“Arthur, of course, Maester Aemon-” 

“Maester Aemon?” Ned interrupted. “Old Aemon Targaryen who is up at the Wall?” 

“Aye,” Lyanna said. 

“What possessed you to tell him?” 

Lyanna shot him a look that had him smiling despite the serious nature of their conversation. It was one of utter disdain and usually reserved for one of her brothers. 

“I did not tell him, he came to visit me and arrived on Jon’s arm. For all his age, Maester Aemon is not stupid and knows the timeline of his family’s demise as well as myself. As soon as he knew Jon’s years, he guessed the truth of the matter.” 

Ned could not contain the nervous tic that had his fingers drumming rapidly on the arm of the chair he sat in. Lyanna eyed these movements with concern before she said, “He won’t tell anyone. Jon is his family, too, and he would not wish any harm to befall him.” 

“And you are sure he would not seek to place a Targaryen on the throne once more?” 

“He is of the Night’s Watch. He sought to forsake any claims to power by taking the black. At no point has he left the Wall to aid his family in any way, so no, I do not think he would wish to do so now,” Lyanna paused for a moment before she continued. “He _did_ tell Jon, though. I could not stop him as Jon walked in during a difficult moment.” 

“And Jon will be content with playing a bastard?” Ned asked, rubbing his temple and wishing away the ache that had taken root as he observed the mess that threatened to engulf him. 

He also could not imagine anyone knowing the truth of their birth, just what their birthright was, and settling to be a bastard. It was an intolerable situation. To be a Snow instead of a Targaryen. He would have to keep a close watch on the boy to make sure he did not do something rash. 

Lyanna smiled and put her hand over Ned’s as if she recognised his anxiety. “Try not to worry about Jon, Ned. He grew up beyond the Wall as one of the Free Folk. He has no use for iron chairs or kingship. He was sad rather than consumed with a sudden lust for power. For him, he has lost a father not gained a crown. He loves Arthur and would much rather be his bastard son than any trueborn offspring of a Crown Prince.” 

The anxiety remained, bubbling away his gut. There was no telling if Jon’s mind would be changed the longer he lived at Winterfell. Ned was sure that what seemed unimportant beyond the Wall might well take on a new significance within the realm of the Iron Throne. 

As if seeking to change the topic, Lyanna said, “I had hoped to see Benjen.” 

“As he had hoped to see you,” Ned said. “But he has been away from the Wall for two long stretches of time, and Lord Mormont had no justification for sending him down to Winterfell once again so soon after his last visit.” 

Lyanna pouted at that. “What was he thinking taking the black anyway?” 

Ned had his suspicions, but as they were all concerning her disappearance with Rhaegar and the events that followed, he kept quiet. There was no need for Lyanna to feel guilt regarding Benjen as well. 

“The Starks have ever been friends of the Watch,” he said instead. 

“Aye, well mayhap that is a good thing.” 

The image of the tall graceful otherworldly beings whom he had fought filled Ned’s mind, and he shivered. “A good thing indeed!”

Silence fell between them. Ned could not help but reflect on all that passed and undoubtedly all that was to come. Winter was coming in more than one way.

He turned back towards Lyanna and saw the same troubled look on her face. “I should have stayed away,” she said. “I should never have sought you out.”

“No, you did the right thing,” he said. He could not imagine being all the way in King’s Landing whilst the North faced such danger. Hus thoughts passed on to the solemn lad Lyanna had brought with her. “You did the right now and then.”

She looked at him, her eyes pleading for his approval, as she mulled over his words. “You were right to stay away,” Ned continued. “You were right to keep Jon safe.”

A brilliant smile broke out on her face at that. “Oh Ned!” she said, as she ran over, her arms reaching out for his, and her cheek resting on the top of her head. “I have missed you so.”

“It’s good to have you home, Lyanna,” he said gruffly

 

\-------------

 

It was not until later that night, as he ran his hands through Catelyn’s hair that Ned was able to take stock and truly think about the day’s events. His head had whirled with worries and potential consequences ever since his conversation with Lyanna, and it was a relief to have the time to truly think things through with the one person who would allow him that luxury. 

“And you suspected?” he asked, surprised at his wife’s calm reaction to being told the truth about Jon’s parentage. 

“Well, yes,” Catelyn said, amusement lacing her tone. “It was no stretch of the imagination once I knew Jon’s age. I cannot see Ser Arthur conducting a torrid affair with his crown prince’s wife right under Rheagar’s nose, can you?” 

Ned chuckled. “When you put it that way, no, my love, I cannot.” 

“How long do you think we can keep Lyanna’s presence here quiet?” Catelyn asked. 

“We will be lucky to get six turns of the moon or more,” Ned said. At some point news would travel down the Kingsroad. He had an advantage in that the North was more isolated than others regions of Westeros, but it was not cut off completely and merchants did travel to White Harbour and into the hinterland, often aiming for Winterfell and other castles. 

“How are you going to explain Jon? Robert is heedless but he is not stupid, and his queen is even less so.” 

Ned groaned. He was not sure how they would tackle this particular issue. “Honestly, I do not know. I wish Lyanna had the foresight to lie about his age.” 

Catelyn raised her head from where it had been nestled on Ned’s chest. “Eddard Stark!” she scolded with a teasing smile on her face. “Are you advocating the use of lies?!” 

“In this case, my love, I most definitely am,” he said, caressing her cheek with his hand before the smile dropped from his face and he continued. “I saw the bodies of little Rhaenys and Aegon, Cat, and I would not wish that on anyone’s child, let alone my own blood.”

 “Gods, Ned!” Catelyn said, all amusement gone. “What are we going to do?”

“I do not know, my love.”


End file.
